Rocklands Festival, New Cross 05/05

‘Little Nan JoJo loves’, the festival that was supposed to be in ‘Rocklands’ place, was apparently cancelled because of a ‘perpertual liar’ failing to actually book any bands he said he was going to. The event in its place, with 6 venues, 60 bands, numerous DJs, a special gaudy ‘Rave or Die!’ room, and for a brief while, the coolest kids in the country, was friendly, eclectic, necessary, wanky, unwanky, sweaty; and remarkably, only £8 for students (£10 for proper people). The crowd ranged from sideways farmer-hat-and-neck-scarf wearing pre-pubescent hair styles to veteran E-diet hollow-eyed stick-wavers. Every girl looked like a 14 year old Lauren Lavern. I once saw the XFM DJ sneeze outside Topshop (I like to remember it as a mucus-led protest against western consumerism, but, as of yet, i haven’t had a chance to ask). That might be confusing images, though.

Early on, there was an integrationist beauty seeing dads carrying kids on a sunlight-bleached dancefloor during punishing drum n’ bass, scenesters and SE14’s own collection of Foster’s carrying next-Alex Turners. It was quite wonderful. And, it almost made me cry.

Seeing a very loud, on-the-point-of-parody ‘new rave’ band was not really what I envisioned doing at one in the afternoon, but that was my first experience. They were bleepy and the lead singer was dancing around in an egg costume. It was like walking into the mid-90’s (with a Lion Mark). We had to go for coffee. On the way we decided to get ice pops. My (cola flavoured) ice pop just resembled a phallic frozen poo, so I decided to leave it to melt in Adam’s bag (presumingly into diahreea), and venture onto Goldsmiths Tavern. We walked into The Pepys (reasonable), saw some schoolboy white reggae (not as bad as you think), got surprised by Look See Proof (slick, sweaty and tight), then moved upstairs into the RAVE OR DIE room. The RAVE OR DIE room was kitted out with (slightly unrave) wicker chairs. There were, though, temporary smiley faces on the wall, and an excellent drum n’ bass DJ. Masked up, we danced like it wasn’t three O’ Clock and sunny. As is the way with drum n’ bass, we endeavoured to kept two body parts shaking in every point of the compass. Shitmat was late, and managed only ten minutes of his (TV theme tune and wedding song) drum n’ bass mash-ups.

If afternoon was friendly, the night was sweaty. As the smooth-chinned NME carriers went to bed (well, to the offie and a safe distance from the bouncers feet) the nocternists, fashion students and artists came out to pay (or, considering the number of ‘green’ wrist bands, get in on a blag). Of the venues, the New Cross Inn was most packed, although the Goldsmiths Tavern opposite was jostling for that right. Luckily, due to the size of the festival and the cancellations, Rocklands felt more like a cobbled together parish fete. Moving from one venue to the other was natural and uncomplicated, leaving villagers with an enlightening sense of utopian freedom.

Queing for the Goldsmiths Tavern and New Cross Inn frustrated matters; the kids and temporarily everyone else, got kicked out and a half day spring clean went into action. This could and should have been shorter. While paying punters waited outside, ‘Green Banders’ jumped the ques. Most were not helping set up the next acts, but they could have at least given some tables a wipe. Those cocaine stains probably were they're own doing, so a bit of Flash and cloth for free entertainment wouldn’t go amiss.

As for evening bands, 586 were a great indie-electro force, Ebony Bones, with three black front women were instantly danceable, but it was Sheffield-based Pink Grease that really stole the stage, installing sass, witt, drive, white Aff’s and arrogance into their agonizingly short set. Their new sound is tight as suspenders and, even though we didn’t hear Nick Collier’s wonderfully eccentric homemade synthesiser, they were quirky and attention-grabbing enough to conqer the ‘nu rave’ movement.

Being at a large festival can be like listening to the CD on Alba speakers, that are to music, what paper cups and string are to international communication. Rocklands was different, and it should be applauded. No ‘returning legends’, reformed bands, upturned portaloos or mud, just great music, feet from your face, coming in your ears. For other pub-hopping festivals I suggest you check out the Camden Crawl or the Great Day Out in Brighton. A small amount of money (£39) buys you three days of passion, and perpetually itchy fingers at your local HMV.

Chris Williams

www.myspace.com/newcrossinn
www.myspace.com/pinkgrease
www.myspace.com/586