Reviews/Memoir
The dangers of sarcasm
It was a friend's Facebook status that started me thinking: 'Poetry exams to mark. Oh joy.' The same friend has lectured on tone in poetry, and the phrase 'Oh joy' is a perfect example: it's only ever used these days in a sarcastic tone. An example she gave in her lecture was 'Yeah, right'. In each case, the tone in which these phrases are used render the opposite to the actual meaning of the words.
At school we used 'Spec' accompanied by a chin stroking motion. God knows where the chin thing came from – later developed to 'chinny-chin-chin', but the 'spec' was a shortened form of 'I expect you did'. The tone of it was that the speaker did not believe what the other person was claiming. As in 'I met David Cassidy last night' (substitute Robbie Williams, Lady Gaga, according to your age). To which the correct response was 'Spec'. An alternative was 'Ebenezer', which has no logical source, E Scrooge being noted for being a miser rather than a liar.
The problem with tone in the written word is how to get it across, especially to those that might not understand because of age, culture, learning difficulty. For example, people in the autistic spectrum tend to take things literally; reading in a non-native language may leave people baffled by sarcasm; and who would guess that 'sick' meant good?
The dangers of sarcasm are evident in the experiences of the sarcastic priest in Father Ted. Trapped in Father Jack's laundry hamper, the sarcastic priest tells Mrs Doyle that he really, really does what to stay in there, and no he doesn't want to be rescued. Mrs Doyle takes him at his word, leaving him to a fate worse than death.
posted 8 June 2010
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Best Words (and Music) at Teynham Library
This event, held on 24 April, was a showcase for the work of the poets who took the 'Best Words Best Order' poetry class, held in Teynham in the autumn of 2009. I was the teacher, and was most impressed by the quality of the poems written, some of which have since been published. Not least in the last issue of Teynham News.
I asked the class to look at the world in different ways – which is the job of poets – to make the ordinary seem extraordinary, and the extraordinary normal.
We looked at poetic form: haiku, sonnets and villanelles, and had a go at writing some. Alison McNaught's 'Beware the Word Thief in the dead of night' (published on this website) is an example of a villanelle – a form that uses the first three lines of the poem, repeated in a certain pattern throughout. We looked at narrative poems: poems that tell a story. We wrote poems that gave a voice to objects that would not normally have a voice: Val Tyler read one at the event, which was from the point of view of a towel; Gillian Moyes wrote 'The Bargeman' (again, on this site), giving a voice to the statue in Sittingbourne High St; Jo Lawther had the poem she was writing talking to us as it was being written. Kate Fox offered the lovely poem 'Dusk' – a mirroring of mother and daughter.
It was a creative time for me , too, choosing poems each week to illustrate an aspect of poetry, testing out some of the exercises before class, and joining in during class. We used objects drawn from a bag as writing prompts: a needle and thread, a set of Russian Dolls, a battery. We drew ideas from memories of journeys. We wrote about a person we knew by remembering their hands or an item of clothing they wore. We used dreams, and we listened to songs that use repetition to see how this might work in poetry.
The relationship that poetry has to music is clear – the use of rhythm, rhyme and imagery. The ability to touch the heart in a few lines. The library event was enhanced by some wonderful music from Bob Carling, Rachel Bradley and Stephen Morris. Bob's heartfelt rendition of 'Country Life' by Steve Knightley was appropriate to the village setting, and showed how song and poetry can chronicle our times. Rachel's brilliant, emotional performance of songs by Joni Mitchell and Regina Spektor was enhanced by Steve on keyboards.
The event ended with an open session for poets, at which seven local poets read. A wonderfully diverse selection, including one sung poem by Robin Grigsby.
Thanks to the library for hosting this event. Looking forward to the next one...
If you read at the event and would like to have your poem on display at the library, please give a copy to the librarian at Teynham library, or email it to me as an attachment. Email address on the About Maria page.
Some of the class's poems are on the Poems and Stories page
posted 29 April 2010
Voting for Jonathan King
It was so exciting – dull old Epsom, where I grew up, was having a by-election, and Jonathan King was standing as an independent candidate. The constituency of Epsom and Ewell was, always has been, and always will be Conservative. It was 1978, I had the vote for the first time, and was desperate to get into the music business.
Jonathan King cruised the streets in an expensive car with a megaphone: no different from the Conservative candidate, Archie Hamilton, but JK was a pop star, impresario and owned a record company. And he wore plimsolls with his suit at the hustings. His was a poorly attended meeting in a room above the Ebbisham Hall where I had gone to discos in my earlier teens, before discovering my true rock-chick/late-flowering hippy identity. I too was wearing plimsolls, my main aim to pluck up the courage to ask JK for a job. I was taking my A-Levels that year, and had no plans for the summer.
JK spouted some guff about his policies, should he be elected. No one questioned or contradicted him; everyone was there for the novelty value. After the meeting, I approached King and asked if he could offer me a job at UK records (his label). He was friendly enough, but no, he didn't need anyone. The label was a small concern and employed few people. I later came to realise that it wasn't the lack of a job vacancy that went against me, but the fact that I was female. If I were a young male, a 'job' would easily be found.
The visual memory of that meeting remains clear: me standing before the man from the music industry, a man who had performed on Top of the Pops, a man in a suit and plimsolls, flanked by two teenage boys.
A year later, I got a summer job in the music business, as a receptionist for a PA and lighting company in Lambeth Palace Road. I was abused, sure: I had a telephone thrown at my head by one of the company directors and was groped by another; roadies ogled me and shouted at me if I didn't answer their calls quick enough; one older one both ogled me and asked me to call him 'Uncle', with a leering grin. I emerged disillusioned, and occasionally pinched by Director no.2, but the scars haven't stayed with me as they will have done for those boys in Jonathan King's entourage.
My family weren't voters, let alone interested in politics. My act of rebellion was not voting for a different party to my parents, but voting at all. To my shame, I wasted my vote on this man who was later to be jailed for grooming and abusing young boys. He cruised in that, and other, expensive cars and lured them with offers of free records and a pop lifestyle. I had a lucky escape, being a girl.
posted 12 April 2010
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Hidden Cameras
Fresh from seeing my brother Jamie McCarthy play violin with The Hidden
Cameras at Hoxton Bar and Kitchen last night, I have posted a review on
the website of The Word
magazine. I may be too old for standing-up gigs in crowded rooms, but
great to see a band with such energy. Read the
review here.
posted 25 March 2010
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Dry spells
I am having a bit of a dry spell for writing after a very productive period. I was heartened to hear Patience Agbabi say that she goes through long spells without writing, and it tends to be a project that gets her writing again; she is reworking some of the Canterbury Tales as part of her Canterbury Laureateship. It was good to hear that some writers don't write all the time. Many of the inspirational books about writing prescribe their own particular brand of writing therapy, usually that you must write every day. Do you know what? You can find your own way of working!
I am getting through this by going through complete work, filing and
grouping poems for submission, sending some off, and researching
publishers for my story collection. Sometimes during these spells, it
doesn't help to go to readings and events. It can make me feel like
these writers have 'made it', and I never will. Going to see a
production of the Rime of The Ancient Mariner at the South Bank Centre
was great therapy, though. Featuring Lemn Sissay as the Mariner, music
by Bellowhead and a choir of local children, it was an experience rather
than a reading. And I bought a copy of Coleridge's poems, including the
Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which is a poem I wasn't too familiar with
before.
posted 12 March 2010
PS.
Dry spell over (see previous entry). I had my nails done today, for the very first time, and a poem is in progress about the experience and the lovely Alison, who did my nails. Funny how the smallest thing can spark inspiration.
I had an interesting exchange with the editor of small poetry press. I emailed with a question about submissions, and this was met with a rather snotty reply. Instead of responding with indignation, I sent her a supportive email by return, detecting stress rather than malice in the editor's email to me. An appreciative email from her arrived shortly after, but I wonder how many people have been put off by her negative approach to her potential authors. My quest continues to get a book or pamphlet published with an ISBN; however, the attractions of self-publishing are not to be sniffed at. Even this stressed publisher admits that most sales are made by poets at their own events and readings, rather than directly from the publisher.
Another rejection slip arrived today, my third attempt to be published in Smiths Knoll poetry magazine. I have to conclude that, though they always give me positive feedback, the editor just doesn't like my poems enough. Some of these rejections are interesting in their wording: alongside the standard printed rejection slip, 'an enjoyable batch, a deft villanelle..'; and from another publisher 'you are a highly accomplished poet but not radical enough for us...'
posted 13 March 2010
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I Remember
I have been working with a writing exercise using 'I remember' as a prompt, and using my husband, Bob, as a guinea pig for the exercise, to see how it might work in a creative writing class. The exercise was suggested by Siri Hutvedt in her excellent new book The Shaking Woman Or A History Of My Nerves. Please note the pdf here is incorrect: Joe Brainard's book is actually available (not out of print, as I first thought). Read more here.
posted 22 February 2010++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Writing workshops: brutal or nurturing?
I was interested to read an article in the Guardian by Rachel Cusk: 'Can creative writing be taught.' There are two things that I found interesting. First, that we have an openness towards writing and creativity as children that gets lost or subsumed as we grow older. Creative writing classes can help us recover that state, relearn it. Second, the suggestion that writing workshops can be brutal, where work gets ripped apart along with the confidence of the writer. I have been in workshops where just that has happened; I have been in workshops that have been positively critical and supportive, and have helped the participants move on in their work, or feel confident in maintaining their position on their work in the face of criticism.
I have been a member of a two creative writing classes and have led workshops myself, so I speak from both sides. In both classes, there was one person (a different person in each class) that made workshops something to dread. It wasn't only their verbal comments within the workshop, but the notes scribbled on my manuscripts that were returned to me. These ranged from 'Strictly women's interest and OK as such' to an assassination of my writing as featuring characters that only observe and are not part of the action. The latter, when I write it here, does not sound so bad, but believe me it do go into some detail and leave me smarting. Another was on a poem I had brought to workshop: 'This does not read like a poem to me'. It was a week before I could bring myself to read the comments from other class members, thinking that this person's comments must surely reflect those of the entire class. When I reached the MS annotated by the tutor, the comment was 'This looks fairly well finished: good poem.'
I spent two years in a class with each of these poisoned-pen critics, wasted too much time believing their comments. I almost said something at the final class of my MA, wanting to point out to the person the effect their comments had on the other writers. I chickened out. I later came to the conclusion that these two were deeply unhappy people (so many of them find their way to creative writing classes), and were actually making comments about how they felt about their own writing.
Recently, I led a poetry class in my village attended by six women. Two of these did not contribute work to the first workshop of the course, but made good, critical and supportive comments on other people's work. However, they both dropped out of the course before the second workshop. I am assuming here, but I think they found the prospect of sharing their work with others (for criticism) akin to throwing it to the dogs. They did not wish to rework their first drafts, just to keep writing new stuff. Therapeutic for them, perhaps, but how can you progress as a writer unless you allow yourself and others to criticise your work?
For the remaining women and myself, we found the workshops tremendously helpful. The criticism was supportive but not too nice; we all edited our poems in the light of workshop comments, or decided we liked those bits that others had thought might be changed; some of us have achieved publication of poems written during the course. The biggest thing for me was that there were no Negative Neds or Nellies on our course. It has shown me that the workshop can be a force for good, if you like. And that maybe the way forward is to find a person or a few people whose judgement you trust, and to workshop with them alone, not opening your group to other people.
posted 5 February 2010
On the effects of criticism and rejection
All writers who dare to send their work off for publication must become
steeled to the rejection letter. A while ago, I received a rejection
email, which included a critique of one of the poems I'd sent,
referring to its 'bagginess' and 'cliches', and that I should try not
to 'bore the reader'. Although I didn't accept all the comments (the
use of cliches was deliberate, as that is how one of the characters of
the poem would speak), I did feel wounded by the comments. I had not
expected a commentary, as rejections are usually standard wording, or
come with some kind of encouragement. This was a published poet and
magazine editor making these comments, and I wondered whether she was
correct in her criticism, that the poem I was rather pleased with was
not so good after all. It overshadowed the publication of another of my
poems in a different magazine, which arrived on the same day as this
email.
I therefore read with interest a Guardian review of a poetry collection
which the critical poet/editor has co-edited. The reviewer refers to
the 'irritating baggy generalisations' and 'tired cliches' of the
editorial, and that the poems in the collection are left to 'fight
free' of the poor editorial. Interesting use of words - 'baggy',
'cliches'. I now feel better about the comments in the rejection email
and am enjoying a little gloat. I hope that the poet/editor takes the
reviewers comments on board,and realises now the effect of her harsh words
posted 10 November 2009
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28 September 2008
Small Wonder Short Story Festival
‘Can you hear me above the noise?’ William Trevor pauses from his reading of ‘Teresa’s Wedding’ as the sound of a milking machine thrums through the barn. For Claire Keegan it was geese honking that interrupted ‘A Long and Painful Death’, and another reading halted altogether as a herd of cows moo-ed their way past the barn to be milked. Blankets are advised, indeed provided, for barn events. No-one complains about paying to freeze in this venue where daylight can be seen in the gaps in the roof.
This is the Small Wonder Short Story Festival, set in the grounds of the glorious and appropriate Charleston House, home of the Bloomsbury group. It offers an idyllic pond adorned with statues on its banks, and the folly garden with loud and blowsy flowers and apples on the trees so red they could be plucked by the heroes of a fairytale.
Claire Keegan, whose collection Walk the Blue Fields was my favourite read of 2007, reads in a subdued and intimate tone, long red hair tossed over her shoulder. She breaks her reading with giggles that are both girlish and seductive, as she stops to apologise for the accent of the German character in her story. Hers is a writers’ story, one of procrastination when the main character is offered the isolation she craves: a week to write in Heinrich Boll’s cottage on Achill Island. She starts her day’s ‘work’ by driving to the shop for milk and coffee, watching at some length a hen crossing the road (beautifully described), then going for a swim, and later baking a cake. Her peace is interrupted by a telephone call from a German visitor, keen to look around the house. She entertains some vague romantic thoughts about her imminent visitor, and tries unsuccessfully to elicit a compliment from him during his visit later that evening. After outstaying his welcome, he berates her for wasting her time, so tainting the sanctity of Boll’s house. It seems he has been spying on her all day. The woman writer, incensed, goes to her desk late at night and writes until morning, creating a long and painful death for him: the writer’s revenge.
After her reading, I catch a word with Claire Keegan about how Irish writers seem drawn towards the short story; she agrees, and tells me about a book by Frank Connor in which he sets a challenge for writers to describe a hen crossing the road. ‘Well, you’ve cracked it,’ I say. She giggles, asks if I write, and gives me some words of encouragement about completing my short story collection. I feel like giving up, I tell her. I could never be as good as her. ‘Oh, never give up,’ she says.
Anne Enright also provides encouragement in the Q & A session after her reading from Taking Pictures, her short story collection published a few months after her Booker prize-winning novel The Gathering. It seems that one reviewer accused her publisher of rushing the collection out in the wake of her Booker success. No, the stories were ten years in the making, ready for publication before the novel. The publishers chose to put the novel out first: novels sell, short stories are not commercial.
I have accused myself of taking too long over my collection (two and a half years for ten stories so far), and for failing to concentrate on one project. Anne Enright has three projects on her desk: novel, short stories and various columns. ‘I have no time for writer’s block,’ she says.
She accuses herself of writing the same story again and again, each based on Orpheus and the Underworld. For those who look back, the object of their desire is lost. She favours first person narrators, woman characters, and there is a theme, as a member of the audience points out, of men taking liberties and women letting them get away with it. Enright says that she is political in her personal life, but ‘it’s not up to a writer to comment on their characters.’
She likes movement in her stories, and this can be on a small scale, describing intense encounters. Her story ‘Can I touch?’ is of a pregnant woman trapped in a lift with a man who is overly interested in her bump. There is an ‘emotional ratcheting’ in the story, reflecting the mechanism of the lift. She has also written a story set on an escalator. She likes the sense of weight and balance, of being inside things.
Enright says that she has problems with omniscience in a narrator. Those of us that have been taught creative writing know that the use of an omniscient narrator is a sin for a writer. William Trevor uses it liberally. The master storyteller he is, he can do as he likes. He tells as well as shows his characters’ thoughts and motives. Do we need to be told that the pregnant bride, Teresa, has married a man she doesn’t love? We already know that the marriage is one of necessity. Somehow, it adds to the poignancy when her new groom asks at the wedding reception, ‘Did you go to the fields with Screw Doyle?’, and we are told that Teresa is not angry with him, the man who has been told to marry her by the parish priest. ‘I did,’ she says. ‘But that was years ago. The baby is yours.’
William Trevor follows his story with a memoir of his childhood in provincial Ireland, and the experiences that inform his work. This is particularly moving for me, as Trevor was born in the same town and in the same year as my late father. I had, in fact, gone in search of my father’s story by visiting this town, Mitchelstown in County Cork, after first writing to William Trevor to find out if he knew my dad. My letter was intercepted by Liam Cusack, a friend of William Trevor’s and now my friend too. I catch a quick word with Trevor as he signs my copy of A Bit on the Side. ‘We have a mutual friend,’ I say, and explain the connection between my father and himself, how Liam facilitated my trip to Mitchelstown last year. The frail writer, now 80, is most concerned to know if Liam is well, have I seen him recently, before I am ushered along to make room for the next in the long line of fans.
I come away inspired, refreshed and ready to work on my next story. My head is spinning with tips and quotes. Claire Keegan’s comment about the short story framing the essential longing of the main character; Anne Enright’s presence as a real, down-to-earth woman telling stories of real women and situations; William Trevor’s continuing source of inspiration from his childhood. I dream of being up on stage at a future festival. Dream over, I get back to my desk and on with the work.
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2 September 2008
On characters and family
The characters I create are rarely just imagined. Rather like a vulture picking titbits from corpses, I gather details from real life and piece them together. Actually, more like Dr Frankenstein, stitching together parts of different bodies. Life and real-life characters are gifts for writers, like the people who come round to collect items I’ve advertised on Freecycle: the woman with the child-like face and the four inch scar laddering her neck; the cub scout leader whose email name, busterjohn, matched his Buster Bloodvessel physique; the Irish woman, collecting a book called The Pope’s Children, who entertained me with an account of attending the Papal Mass in Dublin in 1980 – ‘when the Pope’s helicopter circled the park, my mother and I just screamed.’
I recently went on a writers’ holiday in rural France. Cut off from TV, the internet, and miles from the nearest town; surrounded by nature and spectacular thunderstorms; in the company of other writers and a great tutor; I found myself frozen, unable to work on anything other than editing the writing I had brought with me. There were no cafes where I could people-watch, no bus passengers to smell and observe the pattern of the dandruff on their coats. No, imagination alone doesn’t work for me.
Characters take a while to ferment, and childhood memories predominate. I was an eavesdropper as a child, one who could blend into the background, perched on a stool by the red Formica table, legs toasting by the coke boiler in the kitchen as I listened in to adult conversations, storing them for poems and stories forty years later. My poem, Visits from my Aunts, shows this, and my story, A Tea Party, is woven from a child’s eye view of adult goings-on, the unnamed narrator not unlike my nosey, child self.
Of course, readers believe that these stories are my own, my family’s. There is more than a grain of truth in this, but never the whole truth. Yes, I did have a tea set as a birthday present from an Irish uncle, but, my father, unlike the father in A Tea Party, didn’t have an affair.
I do agonise before I fictionalise family stories. My father’s cousin, Nellie, told me about coming to England from Ireland in the 1950s, and being badly treated by the family where she was a mother’s help. I pushed this further in ‘Biddy’, my most recent story, with her character being raped by the father of the family, then suffering a miscarriage in a hospital where they believe they are dealing with the aftermath of a back street abortion. The rape never happened in real life; the miscarriage is my mother’s story. There is a risk in writing both: that the unreal will be taken for real life; that the true story, one of many we were never to divulge outside the family, will now be known by everyone.
I left this story for several months, scared to proceed with the fiction, scared to write about real life. I justified returning to it by reassuring myself that neither woman will read the story, and that writers should not be bound by taboo, or what others might think. Two quotes came to mind (I’m not sure who first said them): write as if you were already dead; become a writer, lose a family.
Estranged from my mother, her opinion no longer concerns me, but I do suffer a quiver of anxiety before sharing family-based work with my brothers and sisters. For my sister Eileen, who is also a writer, she was consumed with fear about sharing a dramatic monologue based on our mother’s stories. What if her siblings didn’t share her version of the truth? What terrible fate would befall her if she spoke of those things that we were forbidden to tell outside the four walls of our childhood home? We both have to learn that we are no longer children, that we are safe from the threats of our parents and the retribution of the Catholic Church.
I have recently been on the receiving end of a writer’s use of real life in their fiction. In Scarlett Thomas’s ‘The End of Mr Y’, I recognised a classroom scene as one where I was one of the students. My class was not portrayed in a flattering light, and it was clear that the character (Scarlett herself?) was unimpressed with her class’s reaction to her session on defamiliarisation. I was not sure whether to be flattered or insulted! How exciting to appear, even if disguised, in a best-selling novel. On the other hand, wasn’t there something unethical about this, using her MA students as material? But what do we have if we don’t have our own lives to use as material? My classmates and I, as writers, must be the first to understand and forgive our unflattering portrayal.
A good exercise, taught to me by Patricia Debney at the University of Kent, is to write in response to these three statements:
I would like to write about…
But I am afraid to because…
Nevertheless I will…
We have a rich seam of stories and characters to mine from our childhood; the pain of unearthing these needs to be worked through for ourselves, and so that others may know stories, which would otherwise be lost. Andrew O’Hagan wrote, ‘The child you were will never desert you.’ As a writer, I say, Thank God.
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Climate Camp at Kingsnorth - riot police and bananas
I am a local to the Climate Camp near Kingsnorth on the Hoo peninsula, the site of the proposed coal-fired power station. I visited the camp today, 4 August. I was really impressed by the peaceful atmosphere and the willingness to listen to other people. I waited for the bus to the camp at Strood station with Dave, a retired miner, who was due to speak alongside Arthur Scargill (in favour of coal-fired stations). There was a respectful exchange of views with climate campers who were also waiting for the shuttle bus. The poor man was carrying the most enormous bag packed with leaflets. I saw him later on the Channel 4 news, still carrying his heavy load, while A.S. spoke to camera.
I met many local people who were camping there, all of whom I had not met before. It was good to be with like-minded people, and to exchange details so we could meet again after the camp. There were two elderly women, one from Hoo and the other from Strood, who had come to find out about the camp and the issues. I thought it was great that they had got past the scaremongering to come and see for themselves.
I left when the cry was going up that riot police were on site. I am not a fit person (I have ME) and knew I wouldn't cope with getting caught up in the aggressive actions of the police. As I left I asked one of the police if I could have a lift to the bus stop, explaining that I am disabled and unable to walk too far. They had closed off the road to the camp, and wouldn't let the shuttle bus get closer than about a mile from the camp. I got a lift in a 'meat wagon' and was offered food. I was very grateful, and accepted a banana! As we drove down the lane we passed a row of police with riot shields. It was a chilling moment; they looked very tense and they gave me a steely stare, probably assuming I had been arrested.
I have since seen all the news reports and am shocked at the police's actions as I feel that it's a peaceful camp. I have to admit to being in tears as I saw the protestors being hit with riot shields and batons. The protestors weren't resisting, they were just holding their arms in the arm and chanting 'This is not a riot.' And it was so at odds with the individual officers I spoke to, particularly the ones' at the gates who were friendly and courteous.
I just wanted to share what I saw today. Good luck to all at the camp. And local people, please don't be afraid to visit. There are workshops and lovely vegan food and people from all over the world who have come to support the protest. You might just learn something.
Maria
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And I'm growing old - Neil Young, Incy Wincy and the internet
Age has not withered me, and after 9 years away from the big one-dayers, I was drawn out of festival retirement to see Neil Young at the Hop Farm Festival on 6 July 2008.
Time was when I would cheerfully remain in wet jeans and T-shirt all day. Middle age has stopped that cheeriness. But no grumpy old woman, me! Armed with (allegedly) waterproof jackets, umbrella and fold-up chairs, me and the folkbloke sallied forth from car park to arena. Four hours of rain later, the sun got the biggest cheer of the day so far when it emerged from where it had been hiding as Rufus Wainwright sang Hallelujah. Praise be, Rufus! Like that brave little spider, Incy Wincy, we had triumphed over rain and adversity.
There was much talk, entre moi and folkbloke, of the shortcomings of our so-called waterproofs and umbrella, which had a steady trickle running down the silver thing in the middle and onto the handle, and how much better other festival goers' rain gear was compared to ours. I spent several hours sitting in a blue plastic recycling bag, which we'd found in the boot of the car - ah, memories of those black bin liners at Reading '77!
Highlights of the early part of the day were the fabulously talented (and so young!) Laura Marling (Mercury prize nominee), and My Morning Jacket. However, the music was marred by the sound which blew away with the breeze creating a kind of Norman Collier effect. For those too young to remember, he was a comedian whose act consisted almost entirely of faking a speech with the mic cutting out, with hilarious results. Supergrass are good old festival stompers, who were clearly enjoying themselves as much as the crowd was. Disappointment of the day was Primal Scream, who sounded like any old rock band, and failed to excite.
The rain returned as the evening drew in, but did we care? After several wet-bottomed hours, Folkbloke fetched my spare dry trousers from the car, the blue plastic recycling bag having failed the waterproof test. Having neglected to bring dry knickers, I went commando for Neil Young.
Neil Young now has the place of Best Live Act ever for me, taking over from Led Zeppelin, Knebworth '79. In a mix of old and new, he totally rocked the place, possibly the loudest and heaviest sextagenarian on the scene. It was the emotion of the performance that did it; 'And I'm growing old', in Heart of Gold; 'Old man look at my life, I'm a lot like you were' - a song by the 24 year-old Young, written with such prescience. How different is he from those days? His voice is richer, and imbued with life experience and experiments in music conducted to please himself rather than the trends of the music industry. I love his whingey-whiny voice, and this was used with good effect in Mother Nature, sung to the simple accompaniment of the pump organ. I imagined it as a prayer, a hymn sung at school assemblies around the world.
After a 25 minute rendition of No Hidden Path, the piece de resistance was Young's encore, a heavy metal version of the Beatles' Day in the Life. Absolutely stunning. The crowd yelled for more, but there was no way he could have topped it. We were left to file out of the arena as high as Incy Wincy was when he reached to top of that water spout. Even the rain and the 2 hour wait to get out of the car park couldn't dampen us.
In the old days, when you came back from a festival you would tell your friends just how brilliant it was, but they never got it. As for your mum and dad, they were only interested in how to get the mud out your jeans, and 'Did you really come back on the train in those filthy clothes?' It felt like you'd been to a secret place, a kind of Heaven after the purgatory of rain, toilets and sleep deprivation. No one could understand unless they'd reached the same nirvana. Now there is the internet. Within hours you can share experiences with other festival-goers. Was the vegan noodle bar the best festival food? Just how shit were Primal Scream? Was it just a bunch of old hippies singing along to The Needle and the Damage Done?
I'm booking my ticket for next year - as long as they have Neil Young every year - and I'm off to find a really waterproof calf-length coat, waterproof trousers and wellies. I believe you can find such things on the internet...