10th – 13th October 2024
We arrived by train, the scenic Leeds-Morecambe direct route that meanders over the Dales. I’m headed to Lancaster for its annual music festival – a sordid “weekend of music and merriment” ranging from acid casualty dads dishing out folk music in Bella Italia to punks playing in the sticky floor raver. Returning after being raised in a place comes with some trepidation. Classic scrapes in Lancaster still linger in the geography. This was the first time I’ve not stayed on a mate’s sofa. Airbnb might be slowly pricing people out, but it’s necessary to sever my link to past poor decisions. Thankfully, most of the establishments I’d been banned from have since gone out of business.
Many of the venues scattered throughout the city are not music venues. They are venues for the city’s professionals to have a sit-down meal and discuss their extra curriculars. From experience, these places are often awkwardly set up to accommodate the masses. This arrangement then leaves pockets of non-commercialism during the festivities: BYOBs and personal living rooms round the city. Bases of operation. I was to leave the festival spreadsheets to my local-knowledge friends. I’m not a fan of planning, and I knew that the few bands I wanted to see would be factored into their plans anyways.
After dropping off our bags and divvying up rooms, we called some friends that were already a few pints in. They were in The Merchants, “dog friendly in the first cellar,” supposedly. The group playing were The Balkanics – classed in the guide as “world music” – who were performing some trad klezmer tunes in the second cellar. The acoustics were wild, all enclosed in the 17th century arches. It was long and dark, with the sound bouncing from the sides. A Steiner schooled-hippy was twirling gracefully near the front. The gig finished and we headed for food. After discussing various options, and with someone’s dad in tow, we headed through town to Nali Shawarma. Collecting everyone again outside, now clutching wraps, it had transpired that some three-year-old beef (not the shawarma sort) had been squashed on the walk. Nice.
Next was funk. We climbed the hill towards The Greggy in three distinct groups. I was getting an update on the beef squashing. I delicately affirmed the seemingly positive outcome, eager for the release of funk. The Hall at The Gregson Community Centre gives school disco. A mix of shabby decor and bright RGB lights offer an air of cheap, yet wholesome. The funk in question was orchestrated by The Convulsions, a sweaty outfit with an energetic harmonicist. A local band who suit the venue. The harmonica got a heavy licking out; the guy seemed to be suffocating on his own tuneful spit. He loved it. The music itself got people moving. Now a few drinks in, I found myself joining the energy. Some on the periphery were still just foot tapping like blushing year 6s, but they happily gave way to those more enthralled. With this energy established, we moved down to The Bobbin.
The Bobbin has inherited the legacies of pubs that have come before, its own clientele invaded by old punks and goths on the regular after their spaces were ripped up. £3.50 doubles have also brought in the up-and-coming coke heads whose only goal is to smash pool and pints. Tonight the vibe is punk, or indie morphing into punk. The band were Morton Betts, who I’m told went to the same school as me, a couple years below. I’m impressed. I-know-the-lyrics fangirls and 6 Music dads are too. They have a younger following than I know but they have a strong presence, blasting out catchy indie bangers. “Genuinely alright,” a friend leant over and confided. “I love Bolton Pets!” someone eggcorned in earshot.
The geography of the festival means you pass venues going to other venues; you bump into people who may have a better pitch of where to head. We’re all on our own journey. I was down for being led places. I was totally pliable, only frustrated when indecision took hold of the group.
At the festival you can find yourself facing sticky faced cover bands with no one drunk enough to sing along. These are the bad times, usually due to poor set time decisions and a lack of eagerness to get shameless. Getting pissed isn’t always easy too, the queue can take a full set. Quickly we figured out we can buy three drinks at once to maximise the musical enjoyment. By this point we were a few triples deep. We were hungry, and shit covers were very much on the menu. With this vague leaning we ended up at Greens, I think it used to be a Sports Direct. The place was new to me and reminded me of Walkabout or Revs, but now there was ska being blasted over the Canada Geese. The band Peloton were more genuine than expected and better than we deserved – a full ska outfit with brass section to boot. At this late in the night they gave the people what they wanted and dropped Madness in with a medley of other highlights the genre had to offer. I was beginning to feel restless and found myself politely requesting of my temporary flatmates to let me invite someone over for the night. They obliged, I think out of straight guilt.
The fiesta brunch at Wethers the next morning was abysmal. Shivering in the foetid sweetness of yesterday, we sought out something less sweaty. This turned out to be folk music at an Irish bar, with more folk tunes in the nearby cafe. Neither option gave me what I wanted: bands with names like the Bimble Brothers and Filthy Laugh. 15 minutes queuing in the rain for a predictable Guinness. “Bring the cup here if you want your deposit back.” I am not this committed. The queue was equally long inside, after gathering enough stragglers, we headed out in the drizzle.
My water-absorbent Carhartt jacket was getting heavier, the numbness was really setting in as we walked. I arrived in Dalton Square not realising this was our destination: exposed in the relentless northern drizzle. The array of pop-ups provoked initial protest but I quickly capitulated and spent eight quid on a soggy tofu peri-peri wrap. I remembered I had not signed up to make decisions, I wanted to be told what to eat. A Latin group were performing at the Melodrome stage set up in the square, trying to spark joy during the dreary weather. Los Chichanos, an ensemble from a range of Spanish speaking countries – the singer named them all mid-set. It’s good to know. A mix of traditional cumbia and their own takes on the genre. Singing was a white girl with unknown origin (she did not tell us where she was from). I wonder if they heard about the Oasis reunion? This felt like a low point. I looked around for signs of defection to some place inside. No luck. As I scanned, however, I spotted a small gathering of goths swinging their hips along to the rhythm, happy to enjoy cumbia in the rain next to a statue of Queen Victoria. Perhaps not all is lost. Vicariously, I cracked a smile.
There was eventually a collective realisation that inside was the better choice. We headed to The Pub. The Pub is frustratingly named, it requires repeating to distinguish itself and is the only pub in Lancaster to serve Trooper. I ordered a pint of John Smiths, not wanting to associate with the metal heads. We wandered through the burly leather blokes to the newly erected tent and bar set up in the smoking area. Dan Byrne was playing, well, singing. After some research I found out he was previously in a bigger rock band that played bigger rock gigs. This was not that. It was entertaining witnessing crowd interaction meant for arena tours with the volume of a bar prattle. There must have been a spreadsheet error, but we lasted out the set for a decent chunk before admitting defeat and returning to The Bobbin.
As we arrived, I noticed an increase in the punks waiting in reserve. Pizza Tramp came on and quickly slagged off the ageing punks sat at tables in their crusty uniforms. They performed a tirade of short songs that sandwiched a convincing speech about how Bono is a nonce. I felt, at this point, amenable to the hatred. Something about how the Foo Fighters are shit, too. They didn’t need to convince me. I lasted all of 10 minutes in the crowd, fighting, surfing and pulling the fallen back up. Loved it. I chatted to the bruised lead singer after the fact in the beer garden and asked him for a quote, he smiled and replied “I will fight every last fucking one of you” and I believed him. I went to piss; the £3.50 doubles were pouring through me. A guy comes into the loos, slaps me on the shoulder, and informs me that “this is proper music.”
Kanteena was always going to be on the agenda during the festival, I was surprised it had taken this long. It’s the only venue in Lanny that’s purpose built for live music, most of the bigger bands at the festival play at least one set there. As a venue it came out of the blue. It’s a repurposed old brewery, decor like a paintball arena and layout equally complex to navigate. Drinks here are the most expensive, at £5.50 for a can. Ludicrous. The band that everyone had congregated to see was TV Face. I’d seen them many times previous, well rehearsed on the Lancaster scene and always a tight set. Post-punk but, refreshingly, they don’t take themselves too serious. And the vocals are appropriately tongue-in-cheek. Deserving of the Saturday night headline slot.
As it often does, the night at Kanteena descended, and we’d claimed one of the huts outside – our living room for the night. These are the times Lancaster feels like a big village and this is the village fete, each group with their own tent. I said I was there for the vibes, ready to drown in my hometown, lose myself knowing I’m leaving tomorrow. “DubKlub” was beginning in a small upstairs room and after a cursory glance in I realised I’d overstayed, the night now belonged to gurning kids and jungle.
This sobered me up. I set off on my ones to the Golden Lion to rest and recoup. Wandering down the street to my old local, I stepped aside to let a guy puke. This guy’s mate offered him a pass on the Hayati as sustenance to calm his wretched stomach. He politely declined and doubled over a second time.
The Lion was a wreck, citrus slices everywhere that made me worried that they’d ruin the veneer. It’s seen worse. In the throws of it I’m not unsatisfied. It feels dirty, but a familiar dirty. There’s people I’ve not seen that I wanted to and people I’ve seen that I’d rather not have. Would go at it another night. People taking the effort to say thanks at the bar. “I’m 6ft 4 with bright green hair, I feel like I’m not hard to remember”. I’m tired, cold, and hungry. I should go back.
The last day I could feel the weekend catching up as the clouds parted for the afternoon sun. The festival has lots of quirks that make it, one in particular is the Bush Rush. Not something I’ve ever sought out but it always seems to catch me at the right time. It’s a flash mob where people are provided with Kate Bush-inspired dress and are instructed on how to perform the Wuthering Heights dance, flourishes and all. Anyone is encouraged to join and anyone does. A Kadampa monk pirouetting in sync with a red-faced dad is not easily forgotten. Those remaining after the Rush regrouped at Ye Olde John O’Gaunt and caught Carl Phillips and the Rejects who performed in the alcove while clowns in pork pie hats shuffled about. I was going to have to miss The Lovely Eggs, they were on too late and Sunday trains would not allow for that. To make up for this I was led to the Craic Inn, that Irish bar, which turned out to also be the name of a band that performed at the bar. They were Irish. They performed pop covers but made them Irish and Irish covers but made them pop. A fitting note to end on. It was the first time all weekend that I was the youngest there.
The train back to Leeds was mainly transporting students, I found this reassuring. People not yet decided on their path. They call Lanny, Lancs. The festival had been too comfortable. The people had found their places, and their places are nice. Just not for me. Attending as a tourist had also cut me off from facing why I left. I didn’t choose anything. No spreadsheets, purely other people and chance and following. You get back into it as if you never left and get dropped like it’s nothing.
photography
You must be logged in to post a comment.