Saturday overview

By now the bloated whisperings, the confused reports and convoluted vistas, have been confirmed as exactly that, exaggerations. All day Sunday attendees of the third Rockness festival were wondering just what happened on the previous day.

Stories of attacks, theft and even of murder in the campsite did nothing to stop these exaggerations from escalating out of proportion. It is not surprising that this developed in the way such things often do, as last year Paul Litterick, who was the festivals company director, also sadly passed at the festival. So it is with some trepidation and consternation that I discuss the subject of Rock Ness and I wish to continue by noting the sad passing of young Ryan Munro and the subsequent death of Mitchell Scott.

Saturday

After completing phase one of ,'Project: Actually-Getting-To-See-Some-Bands' is complete, I hunger for some 'good ol' geetar' music, it being just a little too early for the church of dance for me, I decide to make haste for the Go North tent, well I would have if I knew that on the laminate map the Go North stage was solely referred to as 'The Bollywood Bar' and known in my head as, 'that pretty cool theme tent that has all the bar-stands with parasols'.



So, after much pointing and deliberating, I wrap my pupils round reputed 'buzz band' Paper Planes. It's hard to imagine who exactly is buzzing, considering how few people are even venturing further than the rather comfortable looking lounge beds placed outside of the tent. However, XFM's compare Jim Gellatly points out that it is only the bands fifth gig and I am prepared to give it a whirl, being obviously impressed by the bands' rapid success. I quickly discover, about half a number in, that Gellatly was right, it definitely is their fifth gig.

The inexperience is quite plain to see, leaving me felling awkward and almost embarrassed for them when the young guitarist accidentally steps on his lead removing it from the jack, whilst he continues unbeknownst to the matter. Their name, rendering them susceptible to being entirely unsearchable, (yielding four pages of bands identically named on myspace for a start) I can offer little more than describing them as 'hip-tastic-Noel Felding-haired-garage rock'. Suitably disappointed and kicking myself for missing Zoey Van Goey, I therefore decide that it's about time I had a proper look round, especially since I failed to viddy the main stage like a top droogy.

We are all aware that the most overused word in pop culture today is 'beautiful', however any attempt at describing Loch Ness would be somewhat lacking in it's approach if that particular adjective did not appear in it. As I walk from The Bollywood Bar to the main stage, I approach the crest of slight incline and see a small-ish white sign saying 'Rock Ness' backwards to me, fenced off by red and white striped tape and guarded by two men with paints and beards and painty beards. The sign is gathering colourful 'mentions' as people feel the need to write 'Thats not my name' to etch their fingerprint into the annals of rock history. I see the ground drop and view the bowl like arena stretched out before me. I think, if you were to look at the main stage all day, the sun would rise to your left and fall to your right and at midday would peak directly above the stage itself. That, is design, dammit!

Catching my eye to my right is the Big Love blow up chapel. Wanna get hitched? Wanna have your reception at Rock Ness? Who the hell does that!? Inspecting further into the arena, I find, there is also Rock-a-oke with a live house band at the Gaymers Cider Garden, which has the added extra of deck chairs and a little red cart holding -presumably- free apples and pears. All I ask is, "Where's the Cockney?", (even though I'm absurdly tempted to do my impression of James Hetfield singing both Bill Medley's and Jennifer Warnes parts to, '(I've Had) The Time Of My Life' in front of a festival audience and thus destroying my Grandson's chances of ever meeting a girl.



Not overtly impressed with Saturdays evening line up I head for the Clash Magazine tent. The Mystery Jets bring their Belle and Sebastian do the 80's sound to Scotland and pull off a strong, memorable and thoroughly enjoyable performance, 'Two Doors Down' being the crowd highlight, though I feel a little guilty not having gone to see Digitalism in the Radio Soulwax tent. Guilty, not regretful.

They are followed by The Twang, with Phil Etheridge boasting a swagger that any decent law man would have to press charges on. Brummie Rapper In Insane Swagger Shock! Punk, house, indie, as they describe themselves on their official site and... it's true. They are the perfect example of this years 'cross-over' mentality, the fusion of the two sounds once so desperately at war with each other. Unfortunately the sound man is at war with the PA, struggling to maintain any semblance of clarity.'Either Way', is one of those dividing tracks (I can't decide whether I actually like or detest the song) it causes wars between friends and arguments with neighbours, but on this day the deliberately anthemic nature of the track is so vibrant that to deny it would be the act of a curmudgeon.



Hoping to catch at least some of Calvin Harris on the main stage, I make like a whippet over there. I soon wish I hadn't. I don't know what I'm watching, but I'm well aware that it isn't entertaining. Harris looks like got lost on his way to a lecture, staring gormlessly at the mass before him. His voice has been put to shame on this occasion by many of the Rock-A-Oke volunteers who sadly, will be losing money this weekend.

The outdoorsman in me tells me that the sun will continue to shine and that it is clearly safe to drop my cumbersome wellies and don a pair of trainers to allow me to navigate the growing miasma of dropped chip rolls and donner kebabs on the way back to the Clash tent to watch The View. It is only then that out of the corner of my eye, watching all the frivolity from it's eastern viewpoint, is a tiny white bungalow, looking onto the Loch, and a pang of familiarity stabs me. Then leaves me, (don't worry I'm getting back to it). At this point the kinks in the festival's venue organisation come into play.

Standing en mass outside the tent are hundreds of eager fans waiting to gain access to their semi-local heroes. Some take it as far as to run past security who were pre-occupied with letting photographers into the pit. I watch one girl run directly into a guards arms only to slip through like the Blob under a door and bolt into the crowd never to be seen again. Once again the sound in the tent is muffled, the vocals as audible as a squirrel squeaking in space, the drums overpowering the guitars by an outlandish ratio and the bass booming in an ill-defined sludge. Not that, that would ever stop a Scot 'fae supportin' the boys, like'. Personally giving up on trying to listen, I leave to feed myself and await Fatboy Slim.



There are two ways to sucker me into anything at all, and one of them is play something that has even the slightest connection to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and the other is, do the exact same thing- only louder. Well Mr Cook had my number this evening, for as the sun burns its last ember for the day, a glockenspiel sampled clean out of my childhood glistens from the P.A. Then I hear Gene Wilder sing, 'Come with me and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination.' and I can't make up my mind whether I should cry or dance. Dance is the answer, confirmed with fire when a beat from Hades ignites the now mammoth number of people running without any manner of grace to the stage.

Cook looks as happy as any man living his conception should. Pandering to the crowd with old hits and confounding them with new twists. Snippets of his own work are sampled lightly while artists in his favour are played constantly throughout his set, such as The Automatic's 'Monster', dedicated in an allusive way to the beast that resides under the dark waters of Loch Ness. Cook must have had everyone else's number as well this evening, because not one second passed on the way back to the campsite without someone shouting, 'What's that coming over the hill...' and it's only then that I recall the white bungalow and to whom that house belonged. The 'monster' of the Twentieth Century, The Beast 666 Aleister Crowley. Sleeping in a tent was not going to be easy...

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