The Polecats dedicating a song to me.
The Polecats going berserk on stage.
The strawberry milkshake on sale at the site/sight.
Bono waving to me from the stage (I waved back, so did hundreds of other people. I was embarrassed. But Bono said he was waving to me "It's funny but I always spot you." It's my nose.)
U2 not being too rock 'n' roll.
The walk away from the stadium on Sunday night.
Three Tia Marias at the hotel on Sunday night after leaving Rory Gallagher to get on with whatever it was or may once have been.
Elvis Costello saying hello to me in the hotel bar on Saturday night.
Ian Dury talking about Jack De Manio at breakfast on Sunday, and anticipating appearing on Brian Matthews' Radio Two show the next day.
Tim of The Polecats telling me that I'm Jake Riviera's least favourite "journalist." Wind up or not, I blushed.
Missing all but three minutes of Dr Feelgood's set.
Missing all but ninety seconds of Rory Gallagher's game.
Not even knowing if Fist, Diamond Head, Huang Chuang and whoever replaced Pauline Murray actually played.
Spotting Brendan Foster.
Being mistaken for Ian Penman.
The Polecats' van breaking down as they tried to make a sensible getaway — the battery had gone flat because they'd been watching too many videos.
Like all pudding mild mares, the rock on the Tyne just wouldn't hurry up and let me go. Lifelessness was in the air: my mind was numbed, my feet were jammed, the view was the same. You're acquainted with that whopping list of complaints: The Festival Review — a stiffening parody of such an event's deadlock. Tyne was, even with Saturday's gesture towards American New Wave/the play abandon of new pop, yet another show down of bald stability.
The Festival, any outdoor pop roll-up lull, has past the point of being a toothless saunter, a waste product of adjourned intentions and occasional enterprise. The Festival is Paralytic. Inert. Dried up, not to be spied on, cried over, lied about ... Festivals are the village fetes in the pop world; the traditional comfort, run by vicar-types, opened and shut by make-believe celebrities, attended by the village idiots.
Two habitual readers from Middlesboro wanted to know why I was there at all — they knew the sterile operation would find no favour EVER EVER EVER. Why didn't NME send someone who likes festivals/heavy metal?
The NME is bulging with sensitive, God or something fearing separates, not one of whom sees the point in aligning pop music to the great outdoors, bordered with hot dog vans, ice cream vans, baked potato stalls — the milkshake stall can stay where it is — padded with sleeping bags, riddled with passivity. The Festival is not even the minor riddle it once was.
It is just a baggy thing that lurks, hopelessly. Somewhere for the dunces to dance. Lots of people have a good time? These people are backward. THEY ENJOY PLAYING PANTOMIME GAMES WITH LINDISFARNE AT FIVE O'CLOCK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON!
The Festival Fiend is the peter pan fan — change holds no attraction, but the greatest thing in the world is if a conga player who once sold Eric Clapton an anarchist pamphlet with the centre page torn out and the crossword puzzle three-quarters filled in forms a group that encores at a festival in forms a group that encores at a festival with "Sunshine Of Your Love." Ginger Baker's Nutters — take them away! — encored to a million mouselike screams with "Sunshine Of Your Love," and along with Lindisfarne parting the Tyne with their thousandth version of "Meet Me On The Corner" this decade, and the very appearance of the third chubbiest performer at the festival (Gallagher, beaten by the Feelgoods' drummer and horrifically, The Attractions' singer), this was the weekend's true festival highlight for the Festival Fiend.