Choose Life.
Choose a festival. Choose a headliner. Choose a beverage. Choose a fucking big hangover; choose wellingtons, ponchos, crazy carnival dress and a pair of shades. Choose port-a-loos, toilet roll, and salmonella insurance. Choose scented or non-scented baby wipes. Choose a canvas home. Choose your friends. Choose metal tent pegs and matching guy rope. Choose a three-ingredient burger after six ciders with a range of sauces. Choose DIY and wondering whom the fuck you are on a Monday morning. Choose sitting on the couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth while fighting post-festival demons.
Choose your future.
Choose a festival.
I chose Hop Farm- one stage, one hour out of London and a brooding summer sky! And for once in my life, I chose right. Sure, it rained (quite a bit actually) and it was in a field, but a festival free from sponsors and with only one stage has its perks too, one of them being that everything went to plan, in a week of cancelled events and no-show headliners it was a relief indeed, particularly when the headliner is a rock god!
But earlier that day, the opening trifecta played to a rain swept audience no less enthusiastic despite the soaking, as most were curious to hear the new breed for songbirds that might well one day don the mantle of vintage headliner. Everest, all the way from Los Angela’s bought alt-country swagger to the English county, while Laura Marling (the only female act the whole day! Come on Vince!) sounded sweeter than ever, a voice that’s a pitch above all other folk tooters littering the indie circuit and the ideal lead up to Guillemots with Fyfe Dangerfield in fine form and proving that even a poncho can look trendy when accessorised with Wayfarer’s and a quiff. Shortly after, came Canada’s Rufus Wainwright and as the first speckle of sunlight showered over every woman older than thirty that had wandered to the front, this dreamboat wisped them into a quiet sigh with his acoustic opera-pop. Indeed, I know little about Wainwright and his melodies, but one thing I do know is that he had all his fans in fine spirits.
And so, as the day carried on, the gig entered its rock slot, where My Morning Jacket, Supergrass and Primal Scream took reign of our ears, as summer poked its head out from behind the grey. Kentucky clan My Morning Jacket bought ambient indie to the farm, with Jim James flaunting his falsetto flair, the crowd applauded rather politely, relative to the verbal belting Supergrass earned themselves playing songs picked from their decade worth of tunes, though none delighted more than Pumping on Your Stereo, the first Supergrass single ever Caught by The Fuzz and party favourite Alright. Bad Blood was pretty fine also, the Supergrass lad’s smooth, so smooth in fact, and I went straight home to dig up I Should Coco. Ok, I lie. But it was good.
But then, not as good as Primal Scream, who, for me were a skip and a jump away from perfection, playing the right amounts from past releases and their pending release, the hotly anticipated Beautiful Future, Bobby, Mani and Co. were a lush wall of guitar to be reckoned with. Can’t Go Back opened the set that also featured Suicide Bomb and Beautiful Summer from their new disc while Swastika Eyes, Rocks and closing number Movin On Up paid tribute to the bands long standing contribution to UK stoner rock. And then the crowd thickened, and the roadies moved in, taking forty-five minuets (one mans job was to take a tape measure to Youngs microphone) to set up a stage that would host the living legend and obvious draw card, Neil Young.
The mood was intense and cracking with anticipation as night approached, and just a little behind scheduled time Young appeared and so I’m told, delighted. Indeed, sadly, here is where the CLASH story ends, as I only watched the intro to what was a two-hour event, as the last train to central London interfered with this writer’s rock’n’roll dream. Just one of the teething problems (the other was wind interference with the sound) that plagued this festivals maiden year, leaving me rather jaded. But hey, I chose, and if it’s back again next year, I’d say Hop Farm is a decent choice.