Bestival – The Isle of Wight

Would you believe, it’s only been eight years since DJ and label honcho Rob Da Bank curated the first Bestival, an irrepressible party nestled in the otherwise docile environs of the Isle of Wight — and yet there’s a prevailing sense it’s been around forever, with Mr Da Bank heralded amongst the more evangelical Bestivallers as a kind of neo-Eavis. A rep for well-organised friendliness and quality music precedes it, along with a canny ability to weather the economic storm. In a year where dozens of music festivals have undersold or been cancelled, this year’s Bestival has sold out (as it has every year, bar one).

Here is a weekend with a clearly defined sense of fun: bubbles and balloons are everywhere, the valley site is dazzlingly festooned with decorations, and everyone dresses up to look like twats. Camp and kitsch hold strong sway here (they booked the actual Village People) and though the themed ‘fancy dress day’ smacks of student union-esque Enforced Fun, it’s a gently encouraged policy, observed by attendees with impressive effort. It all makes for a cheerful and often hilarious visual mélange; rarely does one witness a stormtrooper wrestling a gorilla whilst Freddie Mercury searches for his camera.

As with all so-called ‘boutique’ festivals, the line-up is esoteric, with shades of eclecticism akin to a 6 Music playlist, or an East London pub jukebox. In a year dogged by repetitive festival line-ups, Bestival scores some neat exclusives — you won’t be seeing headliners Björk or The Cure anywhere else this year — alongside some rather more familiar names (are Metronomy contractually obliged to play at all music festivals until the end of time?).

Of the three main headliners, only one really manages to impress. Only gurning teenagers need apply for Pendulum’s hyperactive radio-friendly drum’n'bass. The Cure seem a more obvious headlining choice, with an arsenal of anthemic hits to rival a Blur or a Pulp. But their two-and-a-half-hour set drags interminably, with new or lesser-known material given too much precedence when everyone just wants to sing along to ‘Boys Don’t Cry’. It’s a divisive tactic — diehard fans are appeased, whilst those unencumbered by eyeliner trundle off to seek brighter entertainments.

Björk, meanwhile, absolutely smashes it, closing proceedings on the Sunday night with an epic and spectacularly odd hour. Draped in the kind of bonkers garb that would make Lady Gaga blush, she’s perhaps the most inventive act of the weekend, gliding effortlessly between twinkly ballads and off-kilter jungle, and utilising a vast assortment of instruments: from a touch-screen operated pipe organ to her all-female Icelandic choir.

It’s a brave choice for the main stage — as Björk herself sweetly admits, the subdued experimentation from new album/iPad app Biophilia are “not really festival songs”, and as in the album, there are lots of big ideas about nature and technology, which don’t always translate to a tired Sunday night audience. But the intensity and ambition of the performance can’t be sniffed at, and old favourites like ‘Jóga’ and ‘Isobel’ keep an infectious energy bubbling.

In general, the main stage is a mixed bag. Toots & The Maytals don’t quite conjure up the spirit of their seventies ska-reggae heyday, with original frontman Toots Hibbert, now in his sixties, looking a bit tired. By contrast, Alice Glass of Crystal Castles imparts a ludicrously kinetic performance, practically invoking the ignominious ghost of Bez. Glass doesn’t so much sing as yelp, delivering a convincing impression of a distressed seal if nothing else. Kelis babbles some nonsense about how we are all “one people” as an impatient crowd wait for her to play ‘Milkshake’. Robyn’s bland Europop dirge should really stay at V Festival where it evidently belongs.

On the other hand, PJ Harvey positively glows, and it’s a treat to see an artist who, as everyone now agrees, is at the peak of her powers — Let England Shake is just as accomplished live. Omar Souleyman’s incongruous blend of middle-eastern folk and nineties techno doesn’t quite suit a Sunday afternoon slot, but draws an appreciative audience. And it’s heartening to see Public Enemy still bringing a substantial amount of noise. Messrs Flav and D continue to rock the gold chains and clock-necklace with aplomb, although their street cred suffers somewhat when they invite the crowd to “tweet” them. Really, guys? You’re going to fight the power in 140 characters or less?

One shouldn’t judge a line-up by its headliners, of course, and as is invariably the case, the most rewarding festival experiences are those stumbled upon spontaneously. Sheffield’s 65 Days of Static provide an elaborate, instrumental rock soundtrack to retro sci-fi film Silent Running, transforming a slightly mediocre seventies movie about gardening in space into something grander and almost moving. SBTRKT scoffs at genre boundaries with an electrifying and confident display which draws on dubstep, house and electro as a live drummer pounds away furiously. Macka B and his Roots Ragga Band charm the pants off us with a convivial slice of lighthearted reggae, including a song called ‘Wha Me Eat’, in which Macka cheerfully lists all his favourite vegan foods. And whether or not you subscribe to James Blake’s melancholy brand of ‘blubstep’, his rumbling ocean of bass virtually enveloped a grateful crowd in the Big Top.

Frankly, if you didn’t enjoy yourself at Bestival, you’re doing it wrong. Some of the musical programming left a little to be desired, but an emphasis on unadulterated hedonism is joyously ever-present, and like all the big-scale festivals whose ranks Bestival has quickly joined, the sheer range and diversity of entertainment boggles the mind. There are fire shows where men fight with swords made of lightning; a ‘wall of death’ motorcycle show; the English National Ballet; even chuffing Mr Motivator (yes, the Mr Motivator). It could be dismissed as a needless stab at irony, but when you witness a middle-aged fitness instructor in a skintight fluorescent leotard imploring a crowd of thousands to “do the horsey”, you know you’re at a festival which doesn’t take itself too seriously.

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