Standon Calling Review// All Aboard The Standon Express
Bigger Than Shakespeare
Agatha Christie sold a lot of crime books; good for her, since although she had two husbands (not at once, obviously), she looked like a man in drag. In a rather wonderful corollary, Noize is oft considered THE investigative music magazine of choice (at least by ourselves), ergo it was fitting that we donned a well-kept moustache and side slicked our hair to head to this years Standon Calling Festival, with its Murder on the Orient Express theme.
Tickets Please (or not)
Poirot had to travel from Istanbul, his journey interrupted abruptly somewhere near Belgrade, by a dead person and 12 suspects. Thankfully Noize had a more commodious and hassle free journey, from London to Hertfordshire, without expensive train tickets, sweaty brows, dead bodies, and with only a hop, skip and a jump to camp.
This is the best damn train I’ve ever been on
In what felt like our own little eco-village for the weekend, the site was awash with revellers bedraped in all manner of garb, the link to the chosen theme sometimes palpable (CSI lookalikes, Cleudo references), and at other times tenuous (man in banana suit). There was a plentiful array of entertainment, amenities and services on offer, including a barbershop, nightclub, burlesque life drawing, and a swimming pool, favoured target for those in need of a quick wash. For the more discerning cleanser, solar powered showers and compost toilets – incredibly clean and well maintained over the weekend – were aplenty, and despite downpours, even the chalky ground, drying quickly, remained relatively mud free (note to Glasto – choose your location wisely).
No-one was murdered, not even the music
The close proximity of stages to each other, and the sensibly staggered line-up, full of eclectic, but up and coming bands, meant thankfully few exhaustive “discussions” over what bands to see next, and contributed to a jovial and accommodating atmosphere.
On the Twisted Licks Stage, Three Trapped Tigers, a London based trio, played a frenzied, haphazard but impressively intricate and tight set, while the energetic, electro-poppy Casio Kids, from Western Norway, bounced and frolicked around the main stage, all beaming smiles, their bewildering vocals awash with skilful, layered and looped harmonies, the crowd cavorting in rapturous response.
While The Liars droaned and stomped their way through a disappointing gig, while Etienne de Crecy, the French master of electro, spinning house and techno - and weaving an epic light show from the centre of his cube - transfixed the crowds, bouncing and jumping under the blanket of darkness. Top marks, however, go to Fucked Up who were, well, pretty fucked up.
Noize killed the Radio Star
Masters of word and image, Noize downed nib and lense to ease into the comfy seat and take the mic to host an hour on Diesel Radio, streamed live throughout the festival. After some initial rough diamond polishing by a “professional” producer, we powered through a set of hip hop, rock and of course rather witty rapport. For some aural ecstasy click here.
If looks could kill…
Exhausted, but content, we finally crashed through our camp-field, in the early morning hours, the sun not far from the horizon, falling wearily into our tented oasis, in anticipation of a blissful, dreamy sleep. As heavy eyelids began to flutter with the first welcome embrace of deep restful sleep, a tiny, distant sound, quiet at first, but then, more populous, increasing in volume and number, cried out.
As the crescendo rose, more chaotic, we rose from our slumber, curious, dazed and angry, we peered from the tent flap, into the pierced, harsh morning air, finally focusing, at first with shock, and then deep loathing on a small sign. It simply and proudly read: Family Camping.
Words by Simon Owen and Erin Keohan
Photos by Erin Keohan
El Guincho, asks who dunnit?
Small people, or a giant piano, in the lounge bar.
Three Trapped Tigers falling asleep on the job
Liars, telling some home truths
Chocks away, Standon’s own air service
They dunnit, they did, it was them, THEM.
Etienne De Crecy taking cubism to new levels
