Latitude 2024 Review

Over the years, Latitude has gained a reputation for fine weather. Even if it does rain, the sandy soil of Henham Park seems to effortlessly shake off what falls from the sky. Despite a history that stretches back to 2006, there has never been a truly muddy one. Last year, however, did test the patience of even its most loyal of devotees, as the rain pelted down remorselessly all weekend. Having returned from one of the best Latitudes in years, I find myself wondering whether the glorious weather of this year's festivities tricked me into falling back in love with an event that has, of late, struggled to forge a consistent identity.

In these straightened times it would be simply unrealistic to expect the lavish opening ceremonies of the past, and in some ways Thursday night's entertainment continued the trajectory of diminishing returns. With only a handful of venues open, and with some having disappeared altogether, it was a case of scratching around for something to see and do. Bex Burch percussive compositions in the Lavish Lounge confused and entertained in equal measure, while Scustin kicked off their Trailer Park gig by diving headlock into the crowd and staying there. It was in the Listening Post where the best fun was to be had, not least as a smattering of rain effectively created a lock in. Before the fun started I caught the tail end of Doc Brown's rap battle, where a fellow contestant was spewing deeply unpleasant misogynistic sentiments, aimed at the only female on the panel. A rare, and bewildering misfire, Brown should have, at the very least, called the man out. Thankfully, what followed was an unexpectedly hilarious session of Robo Bingo. Lloyd and Pete used the conceit of a game of Bingo, played on your own phone, to milk the inherent absurdity of the proposition about as far as it could go. A mix of sharp comic timing and nerdish IT genius it proved the highlight of the night. Unless, that is, you happen to share the same unhealthy fascination for the 80s Video Nasty scare as Robin Ince and Reece Shearsmith. In an Uncanny Hour, a happy few lapped up references to bygone horror films while most sat back in bewildered confusion. I happen to be in the former category and loved every minute, but I can understand why others might have looked longingly at the Sunrise Stage schedule, bemoaning that they only came here because Hotwax and the Mystery Jets had been put on a stage that was far too small for the inevitable demand.

Friday's opening act on the main stage was WITCH, a band intent on raiding the Black Sabbath songbook, but then performing it with traditional African Instruments. Basking in the sun that would settle in for the weekend, it was the perfect start to the day, although for early risers it was actually preceded in the forest clearing by a memorial service in the Woods, an irreverent, merciless and very funny farewell to Rishi Sunak's Conservative Party presented by And Remember We Care.

The Faraway Forest in which the clearing resides is just one of the distinctive areas that makes the Latitude setting so characterful and uniquely interesting. In short, it’s a lovely place to be, packed with good natured folk that make the light touch of security and marshalling all the easier. The stewards, dressed in pixie outfits and blowing bubbles may be a tad twee, but I can live with twee if it means everyone is on the same page, enjoying the simple act of being respectful to one another. So why wouldn’t you stop a while to watch excerpts from this year's Ink festival. Their mini plays were just the first of many trips to the Outpost, a recycled venue name that now seems to focus on weird and wonderful chamber theatre, with truly original performers pushing the boundaries of what performance can be. Yolanda Mercy talked us through the failure of performance, frustrated that she is a writer forever viewed through the prism of her colour. Johnny White Really-Really confounded the very definition of comedy as his rambling, discontented muses brought to mind both the anti- comedy of Ed Aczel and the elegant sentence structure of Daniel Kitson. Good those these performers were, both were eclipsed by Elf Lyons, whose act centred on a mime of horse determined to throw a child down a well. If that makes little sense, then neither, I can report, did it at the time, only that it was brilliant, unique and darkly hilarious.

Frank Turner seemed as puzzled as his audience that he was so low down the bill - he certainly filled the main arena with his grandstanding anthemic music. In sharp contrast, I got the sense Latitude wasn't quite ready for Fat Dog on the Sunrise stage, where a modest crowd egged on a band whose primeval sound seemed to reverberate the spine. Meanwhile, down by the lake, the gentler pleasures of punting gondoliers and wild swimming surrounded the waterfront stage - one of the oldest venues at Latitude – a stage that hosted a fine programme of dance, not least the exquisite precision of Ekleido, as Hannah Ekholm and Faye Stoeser literally tied each other into knots.

Back on the main stage, Texas based Khruangbin offered up an intoxicating mix of spade rock, funk and dub that teetered close to early Hawkwind, before heading off towards the Bee Gees, and proved to be the musical highlight of the day. Less impactful, though certainly pleasant, was Kenny G/Enya mashup Laura Misch flying solo on keyboard and sax. Both eclipsed the Second Stage Headliners Future Islands, who seemed bedevilled by sound issues. It's an unforgiving cavernous space at the best of times, and with their performance falling flat, I sloped off early to catch a winning roster of bonkers alternative comics, be that Rosa Garland's salad based burlesque, or Lachlan Werner

I have never been that keen on attending podcasts at festivals - it feels like I'm being short changed usually - but Russell Kane was such a personable host that Saturday’s Evil Genius flew by. The premise - are festivals evil or genius- was wafer thin, and neither of his guests seemed equipped to deal with the question. He, however, was unusually insightful and occasionally fearless in expressing controversial views with a wit and intelligence that transcended the format.

Seasick Steve did a fine job of commanding the main stage, albeit with a well-known worn routine of homemade instruments, while an appreciative audience basked in the sun, understandably camped out for the day in front of one of the best main stages festivals have to offer. Latitude also has one of the worst, however, but despite misgivings, I felt obliged to investigate the Alcove. Holly MacVe has a pleasant voice and had a good crowd happy to listen to it, but the Alcove is such a soulless, crammed venue - imagine a wedding reception marquee past its best - that it’s difficult to enthuse about anything appearing there. Latitude takes such pride in presentation that I wondered whether it's grimness was part of a misguided aesthetic, but I somehow doubt it. 

A far more attractive proposition was The Listening Post, an all-purpose venue that has bundled up the work done by various long-gone tents. It consequently attracts far more people than it can accommodate, requiring planning and/or sharp elbows if you want to attend what's on offer. A double bill therefore looked like an attractive proposition - once you're in you're in - and it certainly provided an interesting contrast. William Dairymple tested the patience of his co-host Anita Anand with tiresome interjection, as she struggled with a disappointingly lightweight chat about beer in the time of Empire. In sharp contrast,  Reece Shearsmith proved to be a charming, self-effacing speaker as Robin Ince nimbly guided a fascinating insight into the making of No 9.

Keane won a headline act sized crowd for their anthemic set, but conscious there were hidden corners of the site yet to be explored, I went in search of something different. I found it on The Zen stage, a tiny platform roofed with corrugated iron sheets in the well- being zone of the festival. The Blue Lions presented a mesmeric mix of psychedelia and traditional Indian classical. Listened to by only a handful of people, some of whom appeared utterly transported by the experience, the cool detachment from the mayhem of the festival was both welcome and transformative. 

Sadly, the same can't be said of London Grammar, whose lacklustre performance further emptied out an already half empty arena. It quickly became apparent it should have been Orbital closing the show - how good would that have been - but sadly the huge numbers wanting to see them had been squeezed into the Second Stage, creating an impenetrable barrier for those of us that made the wrong initial choice. Thank goodness, then, for Beak>, whose uniquely eccentric brand of complex rhythms and catchy melodies entertained a modest crowd that were lucky, or smart, enough to have swum against the tide. A quick peek into the Listening post afterwards was rewarded by a deceptively complex tale of self- deception by Michelle Brasier, after which a PowerPoint themed comedy session demonstrated that not all new ideas are good ideas. It was clearly time for bed.

I wandered into John Pienaar's show while waiting for Alexis Ffrench's performance, only to find Pienaar interviewing Sam Lee, due to perform later that day. What an engaging and warm discussion they were having. Others followed in a similar vein, and in hindsight I should have stayed, as Ffrench proved one of the few disappointments of the weekend. Lying in the sun, his ethereal music drifting in the air, was initially a lovely start to the day. However, his reliance on backing tapes ultimately made for a cloying experience - akin to eating delicious chocolates without noticing you are starting to feel sick. By way of contrast, the aforementioned Sam Lee gave a stripped back performance; that, but for his extraordinary vocals, might have got lost on such a big stage, Authentic, articulate and personable, his huge talent won over a crowd that seemed initially confused by his presentation of ancient British folk songs, until – that is – they all started singing along.

The comedy tent remains a victim of its own success, and it would be churlish to complain when Latitude books such popular acts, but it does mean that however big the tent - and over the years it's got bigger and bigger – it is always full to bursting. This means the casually curious are unlikely to get a look in, while the comedically committed are effectively locked in for the duration. Both seem a pity and not really in the spirit of festival grazing. Nonetheless, fancy footwork can get you in if you're prepared to sit in the foetal position thereafter. Stewart Lee was my incentive to give it a try, and while he was good value, he seemed to struggle with a festival audience. What he delivered was a patchwork of material from previous shows. Divested of the trajectory of his unique brand of long form comedy it was still funny, but not as satisfying as fans have come to expect.

Something else I've come to expect is Latitude's commitment to theatre, with a proper Theatre venue devoted to challenging and diverse work of real substance. There's been a subtle shift away from substance over the years, towards circus and gig theatre, and at a festival I suppose that's fair enough. Nonetheless, a couple of productions are worth a mention. Shon-Dale Jones's Cracking was a neat examination of mob rule and group think, proving that blind prejudice and received thinking doesn’t need the internet to fester. A studied and assured work, it was a great shame it overran and had to be curtailed, as I can’t imagine those waiting for the next show, Rosy Carrick's Musclebound would have minded. A last minute replacement for a no-show, she didn’t get the audience it deserved, but those happy few that did turn up were treated to a frank and challenging examination of Carrick's sexuality that was moving, funny and just a little bit shocking.

Nile Rogers wowed a huge crowd on the main stage with a bewildering roster of songs he had performed, written or had a hand in. To my mind it had the patina of tribute about it, as luke warm versions of songs made famous by other people were ticked off the list, but I was in the minority, and Rogers should obviously have occupied a headliner slot at some point during the weekend. By way of comparison, The Second Stage had only a modest audience for the haunting drama of Lankum. The sounds they produced were spellbinding. What a pity that someone turned up the smoke machine up to eleven, meaning we didn't actually get to see them.

Lankum having closed the Second Stage early, Sunday's headliner had no competition, a curious habit Latitude got itself into the year of the Mumford. Despite the line of folk wearing Duran Duran T shirts that had secured their front row view during Alex's Ffrench's set and hadn't budged since, not everyone is a fan of what must be the guiltiest of pleasures. So it’s a final thank you to Latitude for corralling me into going, through lack of choice, to a performance that I might have otherwise avoided, and yet was easily the highlight of the weekend. As a young land I was, of course, snootily dismissive of these pop puppets and their expensive promo videos. What I see now is how brilliantly crafted all those songs were - songs that I somehow appear to know all the words to and which are still going around my head as I write. Self-aware enough to know we've turned up for the hits, but accomplished enough to sneak in a few others - most notably an audacious Talking Heads cover - this was entertainment on a grand scale that had grannies and their grandchildren dancing in a field like no one was watching.

How much the glorious weather played its part is still not easy to quantify, but as a rounded, entertaining and quite simply jolly weekend, this was the best Latitude outing for years. The odd misgivings remain. There’s an unsightly crater where the dining experience used to be. Particularly galling given the film tent was sacrificed to make room for it. The cost of the program and accompanying cuddly sheep, t-shirts, tote bags and simply feeding yourself. The Co-op - such a good idea in theory yet filled with junk food in practice. But such grumbles are easily offset by the complete lack of litter, unfailingly courteous security staff, faultless crowd management and immaculate toilets. Spoilt for choice, my head was buzzing after three days of sensory overload. Simply put, this Latitude renewed my affection for a festival that I’ve been going to for fifteen years and had almost lost faith in. I look forward to returning.

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