Marble Hill is a stunning little stately home, set between Twickenham and Richmond, and was originally built around 1729 for Countess Henrietta Howard, mistress to King George II. It seemed that the Stud King was every bit the Gent towards his Bit On The Side, and bought several acres of land and built her a miniature palace as a present. She must have been an absolute genius in bed.
It seemed rather fitting, therefore, that this Jazz Café Picnic, which seemed less of a Festival and more of a Royal Gala, was here at this venue, of all places. It was raining on the day, so this writer showed up, dressed rather pragmatically in wellies, baggy jumper and a beanie hat. I was literally the only person in the entire park not wearing Prada and carrying a Waitrose picnic hamper. Oh the shame…
The food and drink situation wasn’t all that good either. Forget
watered-down, flat pints of Carling - bottles of over-priced Kendermann’s Rose were on the menu instead. The only other beer available was Corona, and the people were allowed to drink from the glass bottles instead of having to swill it from plastic glasses, which in itself was quite telling. You wouldn’t get that at ANY other Mean Fiddler event.
“But of course daaaaaaaarling, we’re a cut above the rabble. Unlike the plebeians, *we* can be trusted to put away out own litter and not glass each other in the faces. Plus the bottle retains the fizz of the beer, but you lot would never appreciate that. Snarf.”
And frankly, if people were willing to fork out £4.50 for an organic pie and some soggy designer chips, which most people were doing, then more the fool them.
The atmosphere was insanely well-to-do; there were lots of families with their tents (Yes folks. Day tents. It was like a small, upper class Glastonbury), and those prams that look like mini-jeeps, with accompanying fashionable toddlers - a large number of whom were, rather worryingly, running around totally unsupervised: oh but I forget, they were amongst civilised people, so they were safe.
Everything that was going on around the festival reminded me of that old Disney film, “The Swiss Family Robinson” – where a family is ship wrecked on a generic desert island. Starting out with a few coconut trees and some bamboo they created several tree houses, complete with hot running water, en-suite bathrooms, and West-facing balconies with stunning views. In the same way, these ‘festival goers' turned up, saw nothing but a stage and some grass, and quickly donned some (expensive, designer) scruffs, got out their fishing brollies and posh plastic cutlery, and then tried to create what they thought a festival should be like. The end result was fairly ridiculous and desperately gentrified. It’s true money can’t buy you style. But it can buy you trendy waterproofs.
Interestingly, it became painfully obvious that there were very few genuine music fans present. Which gave the uncomfortable feeling that the underlying dynamic of this event was that the artists were more like Mediaeval minstrels, brought/allowed in to entertain the viewers, not the other way round – that the viewers were there to appreciate the (exceptional) quality of the musicians.
This was something that wasn’t lost on the artists themselves. The Hip Hop act FOREIGN BEGGARS had evidently been ordered to give a sanitised performance –they had to omit most swear words from their set. Why? Would it offend the ladies? Would the Gappy children start speaking in a Ragga Stylee? Surely censoring the content in such a way completely misses the point of what they are about? “Yes sweeeeeeeeetie, we can do “angry”, but try to curb it ok? Nryarrmmm.”
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Foreign Beggars noted the disparity between themselves and the audience – shouting out lines such as: “Indie kids who dressed as though they didn’t have a stitch, when it was clear they were privileged…” They even stopped mid-way through to (rather kindly) give a brief history of Hip Hop, then exclaiming: “Does anybody here actually LIKE hip hop? – you, the Rude Boy in the corner, yeah you? Put your Hot Dog in the air! [ad. Lib. like you just don’t care]”
Their set was highly entertaining, they have bags of personality and they are really funny. They were brimming with energy, and I’d like to see them again, but in a venue where they will be allowed to express themselves fully.
Perhaps the most amusing part was their final song, which was a cover version of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name” but with the all important ‘Fuck You!!!’ omitted. Although, amusingly, it was unlikely that anyone present knew the difference.
Between the bands, there was a weird interim, when some DJ or other spun some tunes. During these sections of the line-up, the atmosphere would drop,the Heavens would open, and I would skulk beneath a tree, supping my over-priced Corona and feeling apologetic for looking like a soggy Big Issue vendor, as opposed to an extra in a T-Mobile advert.
Then (thankfully) the deliciously quirky NOUVELLE VAGUE took to the stage, opening with a glorious version of Echo and the Bunnymen’s ‘Killing Moon’, and proceeded to wow the crowd (or those who dared wander out of their flimsy day-tents) with cover after cover of cult indie hits from the 80s – including “Love Will Tear Us Apart” (Joy Division), “Blue Monday” (New Order), and even Yazoo’s “Don’t Go” (with Alison Moyet, for those too young top remember). During this performance, onlookers were dazzled by some seriously amazing tambourine playing, some crazy beatnik dancing, and one of the greatest kazoo solos of all time. You may laugh, but it really worked. They are one of those funny bands that sound kitsch on tape, but when play live they really blow the (proverbial) roof off.
As the utterly, utterly beautiful Gerald Toto (one of the singers) said, “[Nouvelle Vague] is like a concept album to recover the music from the 80s, to save it from the ‘Nu-Wave’, to show how good the melody was, to get the spirit of the song.”Well, this writer is certainly a convert. Go out now, go and see the joy...
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