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Review: Big Chill

It was with a strange uneasiness that I made my third annual pilgrimage to the Big Chill. My previous two festivals had both been fantastic experiences, but it was not simply the weight of expectation that troubled me this time around. The festival brand was sold last September to Festival Republic, who are perhaps best known as the organisers of Reading and Leeds festivals. In the light of this I had certain anxieties as to whether one of the finest and most vibrant bastions of trip hop and ambient counterculture could withstand the onward march of the indie machine. One festival featuring acts such as Massive Attack, Bonobo, Roots Manuva and Morcheeba was not enough to confirm my fears. But my enduring feelings after the event were that the reference to the event as a ‘Chill’ amounted to almost criminal false advertising, and that a better outcome might have been served in allowing the Eastnor deer to enjoy what for the rest of the year is their exclusive pasture.

Now, before I’m accused of being a misery, I’m not trying to suggest that there was no fun to be had at the festival this year. It remains an excellent weekend, with a fantastic line up, weather (the sun always shines on Eastnor on the first weekend of August) and the best balance between site size and capacity of any festival I have been to. The site and its surrounding are beautiful, with the arena nestled in a part-wooded valley within sight of the Malvern Hills, one of the oldest mountain ranges on the planet. The festival has a tradition of curious artistic installations that shows no signs of retreat: one side of the valley was dotted with enormous flashing balls; the Starburst stage faced onto a field of brightly lit towers of water containers; and on Sunday morning there was the mass naked photograph organised by Spencer Tunick, without which any festival is incomplete. Nor was this year’s event by any means devoid of those great unifying moments that festivals rely upon for survival – Thom Yorke’s harrowing rendition of ‘Reckoner’ and a stage invasion to the tune of M.I.A.’s ‘Paper Planes’ in particular come to mind. But even these were somewhat tainted by the festival management: no sooner had the party begun on the Deer Park stage than the sound was cut and the ravers escorted from the premises.

The essence of the problem with this year’s festival seems able to be reduced to one factor: Festival Republic. Given the fantastic endowment of site, scenery and history passed on with the rights to the festival brand, it would have been remarkable if the festival had actually become a bad one, though clearly every effort was made in this respect. Instead it appears that the changes made to the existing formula were exclusively malign, but thankfully there were not enough of them to completely spoil the event. A reorganisation of the arena access shut off a path with a wonderful panoramic view of the site and surrounding hills, discouraged lounging and sun-worshipping on the adjacent slope and also denied access to the woodland that usually provides such a welcome variety of landscape. Other minor annoyances included the absence of screens next to most stages, including the main stage, and the failure of the famous Big Chill sign to stand upright for longer than ten minutes at a time. However, the single most efficient enjoyment sap of the weekend undoubtedly was the security policy. New ownership meant a new security firm whose personnel, either from habit or on orders, enacted the most intrusive and least ‘chilled’ treatment of paying customers I have seen at any such event. Gainsborough Security insisted on checking every wristband at every gate, regardless of the direction of travel. This led to bottlenecks and long queues of very frustrated festivalgoers, only partly placated by the apologetic smiles of the friendly Oxfam stewards. The new addition of campsite CCTV was creepy at best, and the supposed criminal activities of individuals that it was claimed had been caught on camera seemed a pretext to search any tent within the postcode. Tobacco, cigarette papers and alcohol in containers that were permitted were all arbitrarily confiscated from those with adult wristbands and confirming identification, and the experience of a friend working as a steward confirmed that these confiscated goods were seen as bounty by the security personnel. Given the inevitability that drugs will be taken to festivals, it seems abundantly clear that resources should be focussed upon controlling the substances that pose the greatest risk to all of those present. Refusing somebody entry to the festival because of possession of a cannabis grinder, despite having no cannabis, is a completely inappropriate way to treat a person who has spent upwards of £120 on a ticket to the festival. It was this level of intrusion that left such a bitter taste in my mouth at this year’s festival.

I was searched comprehensively twice in two days, was party to a run in with two undercover policemen, and either witnessed or heard countless reports of needless aggression, often aimed at those under the age of eighteen, on the part of the security personnel. It may be unfair to blame Festival Republic for all of this; to some extent Gainsborough Security may be responsible, or else new restrictions put into place by Herefordshire Council. If the council is to blame, I hold little hope for the future.
It seems there is a race on, a race to destroy festivals as a cultural expression. On the one hand we have the monopoly power of the music promoters. Companies like Festival Republic cannot help but trample on the autonomy that is so necessary for festivals to coexist as independent and distinct entities. On the other hand we have the creeping parasite that is council and police regulation, which places stringent security demands upon organisers and offers little or no funding, making such policies difficult to execute, and impossible to do so with any subtlety. This approach was employed to a ridiculous degree in the case of Glade Festival by the local authorities, and many suspect quite reasonably that it was done deliberately to drive the festival into the ground. Until festivals are seen as something other than an excuse to traffic and deal lavish quantities of Class A drugs, I cannot see the Big Chill being able to live up to its name. And until Festival Republic relinquishes its monopoly grip on the festival market, I fear that Eastnor is sliding towards becoming the third Carling Weekend.

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