Up The Massive Downs (Gert Attack Review)

“We’re goin up The Downs at 11”, says C.

We meet in the pub at 4.

“Been on a bloody train for ages, it was half an hour late – and rammed.  Everyone is goin to this thing.”

So that’s me stuck with Him, now.  Sunshine Boy slopes off and re-appears with “one for the road”, which turns out to be a bottle of Bourbon. 

“Got any mixer?”  One of The Lads asks.

“Oh…no, didn’t think of that” says Sunshine Boy slowly.

“Oh well, in for a penny…” chirps C, grabbing the bottle with a grin.

I look at Sunshine Boy.  “Nah, you’re alright” I decline – as politely as possible, in the circumstances.

“For the walk…” He says, hopefully.

It’s only a ten-minute walk.  It takes us half an hour.  In the end, the only ones who want any of the vile, piss-coloured liquor are C and Sunshine Boy.  So they do the lot in.

 

These.  These are my friends.  I can’t help thinking I’ve made some terrible choices in my life that have led me to this point, outside a shitey student theme pub on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  Should be a good gig though.  Everyone’s going, apparently.

 

I overhear C trying to speak French to Jim’s girlfriend.  I remember enough of my GCSE French to know he’s speaking in non sequiturs, barely even trying to make sense.

“Je ne pas parle Francais – je suis desole.  J’etude Angleterre est merde!”

Still, he gets the laugh he was no doubt looking for…

 

As we stomp up the hill, Him and Sunshine pass the bottle back and forth, occasionally offering it round – for appearances only, I’m sure.  By the time we get to the gate, they down the last few swigs and dump the empty bottle.

 

“Ironic, really innit – they won’t find my drugs, cos they’re in my pants, but they’d crucify me for havin a glass bottle full of legal booze.  Daft.” Sunshine Boy opines, loudly, with C nodding his assent, somehow even louder, without words.  Conspicuousness notwithstanding, we make it in without incident. 

 

The rain hasn’t kept the crowds away – good job it wasn’t a ticket-on-the-door type of thing…

the party is in full swing as we wander around the site, looking for the bar.  Turns out there’s four of them, all with queues. 

 

I’m on the phone to other friends we’re trying to meet, telling them we’re up the Downs now.

“Up The Downs, on the Downs, at the Downs – it’s a grammatical clusterfuck, Man!” C is now slurring his words.  Sunshine is faring better, but it won’t last.  Especially as they’re stomping off to find the bar with the shortest queue.

 

After what seems like hours of waiting, C & Sunshine come back from the bar.  With bottles of wine.  I’ve only ever seen C drinking wine once, at Martin’s wedding.  It didn’t end well…still, he explains with Sunshine nodding in sage assent:  “Four-pound-fucking-thirty for a fucking can of Red Stripe!  Fuck that noise.  Bottle of wine for £15 – more like it.  Sensible.  Wanna swig?”

Don’t mind if I do.  It’s £5 wine in a plastic bottle.  Festival times.

“Fuckin offensive bar prices, man.  And, obviously, they won’t let you bring your own, so it’s a captive audience innit.” 

I don’t often agree with The Sunshine Kid, but that’s a fair assessment.  The whisky-necking looks slightly more sensible in retrospect…

“Cans as well, mind – they’re not payin for the kegs, the taps, the gas, all that.  Just a few fridges and a truckload of cans.  Cheeky cunts.” Jim cuts in, joining the classic festival pastime of moaning about bar prices.

 

Checking out some local Superstar DJs, we all get our groove on as light showers come and go.  C pulls out something illicit (I honestly don’t know – or, for that matter, care – what), and then something he describes as “less illegal”.  As he’s filling his rizla, a security guard appears from nowhere, stalking through the crowd.  He grips C by the shoulder, asking pointedly “What you got there?”

C has noticed the fella just a fraction of a second too late and isn’t quick enough to hide what he’s got. 

The security bloke is looking like he is himself under the influence of some heavy stimulants; wide-eyed and snarling, he is on his own here – it’s not like they’re on patrol or anything, he’s just a lone wolf hunting stoner prey. 

 

We follow the over-stimulated pair as the one frog-marches the other towards the gate.  I can’t hear what they’re saying, and I’m the first to call C on his shouty nonsense, but he is being calm and eminently reasonable, while Security Man turns to us as we approach and fires “Do you want to go out with him?! DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT WITH HIM?!  DO YOU?!”

Every sentence this guy speaks is a jab in the chest; he’s definitely on something, I’m sure of it.  Maybe just a power trip, but if so, it’s a powerful trip indeed.

When he puts it like that, we all have to admit that, no, we don’t, we’re trying to stop him getting thrown out.  Take his weed off him, if you must, and leave him alone.  We’re also concerned C could get arrested, which would not do at all.

In the end, C does the gallant thing, telling us to calm down and go back in.  “Don’t worry about it, go and see Primal Scream”, he says, over his shoulder, as he’s led away.  “No point anyone else getting kicked out, is there?” 

I take the piss a lot, and he (more than) reciprocates, but I love this kid.  He can be a noble swine, when the time comes.  The twat.

 

We speculate on what could have caused this insanity.  “Someone’s grassed, I reckon”, offers Jim.  This is dismissed out of hand by almost everyone else; quite simply, no one wants to believe that’s what’s happened.  It doesn’t bear thinking about for The Crew.

Sunshine Boy has an idea more plausible to The Crew: “The dude looked proper hectic, like he’s been at the ‘roids.  What a wanker.”

 

Naturally, this has put a Proper Downer on things.  As I say, I’m the first to call out our kid C when he’s shouting a load of bollocks, but this shit is unconscionable.  Jim sums it up, while rolling one to replace the confiscated one.  “He’s done nothing wrong.  Illegal, mind.  But not wrong.”

The whole thing is obviously very disappointing – and a bit embarrassing, to be honest.  We’re not sixteen any more…

 

Primal Scream do their best to cheer us up, but I’m distracted.  And damp.  We eventually give up trying to find the rest of the crew, until suddenly a text magically appears, from G.  We even manage to meet up (“just to the left of the sound desk at the main stage”, obviously – it’s the law.)  It does lift my spirits, and we enjoy a boogie to some Scream hits.  I honestly couldn’t tell you what they played, that section of the day was a bit of a blur.  But they played the ones you’d expect them to play to a festival crowd.

 

Finally, as night descends, like a great dark thing, the headliners take the stage.

“Friends, Bristolians, Countrymen…”

On screen flash the names of the great icons of modern times: Marlene Dietrich, Henry Kissinger, Anne Frank, Karl Popper.  And Ben Elton.

“Everyone OK, Bristol?”

Alright, ta.  Ow bist?

 

After a great start including a couple of Blue Lines classics, Young Fathers take the stage and do the thing that Young Fathers do.  I quite like them, and their short performance doesn’t change my attitude at all.  I’m drinking heavily and dancing to keep warm, both in tribute to our fallen comrade, C.  “I was steaming when I wrote this – so shoot me if I go to fast.”

Lifeisjustapartyandpartiesarentmeanttolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssssssst.

 

“Rumours of my ability with a spray can are greatly exaggerated.”  Hahahahahahahaha.  That’s a reference to a Daily Mail article, so I don’t really get it.

 

Tricky rocks up, with his customary growling and short attention span.  He’s there and then he’s gone.  I make notes to remember all this stuff.  I don’t really remember it.

 

The songs are more about texture than tune, aren’t they?  They don’t write neatly structured pop songs, that’s for sure – it’s usually the same all the way through, with a break and build type scenario.  “Not like how a musician would write, is it?” says Jim.  I nod, not quite capable of articulating my own subtle criticisms at this stage.

Some songs may be longer than they should be, but I’m in no position to judge.

Reluctant to judge/fucked/perception may be skewed/skewered

 

We’re not in the best position to see, but there are loads of projections on the backdrop:

“Je suis Istanbul, Je suis Baghdad, Je suis Nice etc.

Je suis ici.”

 

“We are all in this together” – this accompanied with images that match the sentiment of it, making it seem real – maybe reclaiming the phrase from posturing government types…?

 

The day, the night, the gig, The Crew, this review, all get disjointed somehow.  Diffuse.  Not in an unpleasant way, mind.  It’s wet but no one seems to care, which is cool.  The bar queue has almost disappeared, so I make the most of a piss break to get fleeced for a cold can.  In the circumstances, it feels well worth the cost.

 

They don’t play Teardrop, which might annoy the casual fan….but they encore with Unfinished Sympathy.  It’s perfect.  I lose everyone on the way out (as is the ineluctable way of these things).  But the rain falls on the lost, the found, the just and the unjust – so we all get a Biblical soaking on the stomp home, as the heavens open properly to punish us for our decadence.  Fuck it.

Je suis Bristol.

Je suis Massive.

 

JE SUIS ICI