Noize Festival Blog - Secret Garden Party Full Review // Top Hats & Tall Tales

A festival blog brought to you by Noize Makes Enemies
Edited by Simon Owen and Derek Robertson

Jul 26

Secret Garden Party Full Review // Top Hats & Tall Tales

Abe Lincoln was a dude

Throughout history, top hats (stovepipes or stovies) were the preferred headwear for important people. Uncle Sam, Abraham Lincoln, W.C. Fields, Fred Astaire, and (probably) even eminent German social philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, who believed that humans were ultimately motivated only by their own basic desires, rather than the sort of collective consciousness espoused by Kant, and more recently, hippies - coincidentally, none of whom (probably) wore top hats.

Top-hat Schops (as he may have been known) would have loved festivals, the ultimate collection of base human desires and a cauldron of individual escapism, though its unlikely he’d have doffed his stovey at them all, since most only pay lip service to embracing the free spirited and the dilettante. Most, that is, except Secret Garden Party.

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense”

Set in the Arcadian bliss of the Cambridgeshire countryside with crowds the size of a small village, rather than a large town (ala Glasto), the festival is organised by a cohort of friends and has the stated intention of encouraging self-expression, latitude, and most importantly, participation. To jump in with both feet, to take the red pill not the blue, to take a running jump through the looking glass, and see just how deep the rabbit warren goes.

Altamont was bad

Lots of hippies got killed at the Altamont Speedway Free festival in 1969, effectively ending hippie festivals, and many hippies (obviously) - t’was the net result of bad planning, overzealous security and putting drunk Hell’s Angels in charge of crowd control.

Conversely, there were no hippies at Secret Garden Party (people in unwashed clothes and carrying balloons don’t count). There were stage invasions though, encouraged gleefully by bands (Stage Invaders), but no violence and no harm done - except one bent top hat.

Instead SGP was a convivial concoction, the result (probably) of inspired planning and attention to detail, resulting in bountiful explorable pleasures and a laissez-faire attitude to the creation (there were few) and enforcement of rules. Some people have suggested a light touch approach to rule-making creates an environment of creative but respectful self-expression, but they probably should be gagged and locked up in a small place.

“If you build it, they will come”

Secret Garden’s grounds are full of intrigue and distractions, and its inhabitants are a meandering bunch, often seen wandering without purpose, or concern, a look of expressive wonderment on their faces, like open mouthed children in a vast toy store. Aside from the standard main-stage fare, good for big crowds and monkey lovers (One Albarn Short Of A Band) there were a plethora of unusual stages - in woodland enclaves, wrapped around tall trees, nestled between hillocks of hay bales, sleepily resting in open-sided tents, or residing on a pirate ship, floating tantalisingly on a refreshing, but ochre-coloured (and smelling) lake, while an assortment of Wurlitzer’s, pianos on wheels, bikes that somersault, and other traffic ambled constantly around.

Jack Dawkins is everywhere

Jack Dawkins, or the Artful Dodger as he preferred to be known, loved top hats, and, on this evidence, loved Secret Garden Party, for he was everywhere in his multitude expressing, if you cared to ask, a deep sense of pride in his black, silk-ribboned topper, and, conversely, taking a dim view of other top-hat charlatans, especially those with red stovies.

Non-top hat wearing individuals (aka lesser humans), busied themselves instead with all manner of Garden wear, sometimes inspired, often random, sometimes fully formed; the offspring of much jocular preparation, often less so, the fusion of face paints and headgear. The result? A ubiquitous melange of mime artists, spacemen, furry animals, country gents, leotards of all shapes and colouration, pink panthers, dinosaurs, sailors and pirates, Romans, clowns, military men, home-made robots paying homage to Marina (Robot Wars) and assorted print baby outfits (who makes man sized baby outfits?).

99,000 balloons (not all red)

Previously Noize highlighted the contribution Mr. Hopper (and his Blue Velvet villain) made to the world by turning us onto the joys of laughing Gas. Balloons and their nitrous euphoric bounty were the accessory de rigueur, and many gardeners could be seen floating across the grounds, permanently attached to the globoids, like puppets dangled from strings, a rubicund glow on their faces. Managing to grapple one such gardener, mid-float, a Baron Von Munchausen lookalike giggled, “Yeah, what you really want is medical grade [inhale]….this stuff we’ve got is rub….ha ha….it’s just… rubb….ha ha ha ha ha ha”.

Everything is Beautiful

“This is the most beautiful festival I’ve been to”, pronounced Noize writer Derek Robertson. Indeed. Idyllic settings, a good looking populous, augmented by sanguine moods and much good humour, contribute to a palaverous state, great for writing, but less so for reading. If you hoped this was a short piece, well, you’re enraptured now. May as well push on.

Dancing (with or without aural pleasure)

Gardeners love to dance, to get their groove on, to throw some known shapes from swing to country two-step to dub, and many more unknown. Location seemed an irrelevance; much occurred on hay bales, on paths, amongst lakeside reeds, lying on the floor, or whilst being showered in paint. Music too is optional, and, even if present, often incongruous to the presence of beat or rhythm. Some dancing even took place without the aid, or burden, of clothes (Eel Pie And Chips), whilst some because of the very nature of clothes (or garden wear.)

“We’re not in Kansas anymore”

What would Lyman Frank Baum think of countless males aping Dorothy Gale from his most famous children’s book? He’d be proud (probably); no publicity is bad publicity after all, he might say, thus justifying a break from exploring the rabbit warren, and from top hats, to film a short scene from the 2010 SGP remake of Wizard Of Oz, though given our cadaverous state, the result of our no-sleep-too-much-to-see-and-do policy, it may be a stretch to make the final cut*.

The top hat off

Surfing is popular across the world, with a multitude of nascent varieties (long, short, kite, sand, snow, wake) spawned from its original form, and with it mega-money, many cocktails, some dreams, and lots of models for wives.

Atop it’s lofty pinnacle, sits the Secret Garden Grass surfing challenge, the gleeful beneficiary of random fortuity, a steep hill, a 50 foot long plastic sheet, some soapy water, and enthralled gardeners, cheering with abandon at a constant flux of soapy athletes throwing themselves, seated or prone (a-la body-boarding), down the course, coming slowly to a stop, at the crested foot of the hill.

On a day, much like any other, a man suddenly appeared at the peak, a red top hat perched atop his semi-naked form, and in a single motion he leapt, landing two footed and upright onto the slope, at first with a wobble, but then with confident surety, he glided down the course, a red blur picking up speed, as the baying crowd were transfixed, since all who had tried previously had failed.

As he reached the lowly crest, Jack Dawkins appeared, carrying a large yellow balloon, in an erroneous and oblivious attempt to cross the foot of the course, turning only at the last minute, to see the red blur. Too late to react, they collided, in a long lost and thudding embrace, momentarily lifting both off the ground, before they landed in a tangled, giggling mess of arms, legs, and top hats, while the yellow balloon floated gently away, like the rising sun in a cobalt blue sky.

* Somewhat miraculously, our ham-fisted efforts at acting actually made the cut. God knows what they were thinking, but you can see the results here. We “star” after 2 min 10 …….. I know, I know. We’re sorry too.

Words by Simon Owen

Photos by Derek Robertson and Simon Owen