Sam Rodrigues:
When your first day on holiday with the ‘lads’ involves you getting sea sick on a pedalo and your mate claiming that there’s a time when the Mediterranean is so shallow that you can walk to Africa, you start to wonder whether your week in Benicassim is going to be the best week of your life or a deleted scene from the Inbetweeners movie.
From the off, the Inbetweeners side to us came out full flow when a black vest was donned. Some claim that certain men can pull off the vest. I disagree. Even that bloke who works out so much that he feels like he has to take his top off whenever he goes clubbing looks even more ridiculous in a vest. Anyway, with the bar set at a vest and that classic British sunburn coming out, the week could only get better.
Those first few days had a strange feeling to them. Only a few weeks after prelims I was still in uni mode and suddenly we aimlessly wandered into thirty plus degree heat with the concept of time left behind along with our hygiene and dignity. It was a brilliant feeling to just lay around doing nothing for the first time in ages. Every now and then we ventured into the warm water and a couple of us even regressed into childhood by building a cracking sand castle. Our first evenings were obviously spent drinking a decent amount of beer in a bar and three nights in a row didn’t once get mundane, no doubt helped by the obscene amounts of Scots, Irish and Aussies that were milling about. An important part of the local culture which I can’t forget about of course is the lovely group of drug dealers which line the streets to the beach. You had at least eight nice men (do female drug dealers exist?) from which to buy the best Iberian weed, cocaine and MDMA; but I still couldn’t find that cheeky bit of heroin everyone fancies on a Tuesday night.
Before we knew it was Thursday night and along came the music. Florence + The Machine pulled out due to illness the first night but that loss was more than made up for by the brilliant performance of the hip hop heroes that are De La Soul. With Friday came one of the two legends that brought Beni’s crowd of over 50,000. Bob Dylan came on stage but so did disappointment, when we realised that age has taken its toll on his singing ability. Luckily the night was saved by phenomenal performances from The Maccabees and Bombay Bicycle Club. But it was Saturday that brought the musical Holy Grail, The Stone Roses, and they were even better than we could have hoped. They may not have been reformed for long but they played the best gig I’ve seen in my life so far. It was phenomenal throughout but the full length version of ‘Fool’s Gold’ plus an added 15 minutes of guitar solo made my week. Bearing in mind the fact that everyday I got to see my six foot six mate sleep in a ridiculously small child’s tent, The Stone Roses’ feat is pretty impressive; the week as a whole wasn’t bad either.
Vickie Morrish:
I’m not sure what made me do it. I’m not sure when the idea first entered into my subconscious, or why I simply didn’t dismiss it on the spot. Perhaps the prospect of some real-life sun had beguiled my sense of reason, or the idea of a festival without wellies had made me crave inappropriate footwear. In either case, I arrived at Benicassim in heels. With the full intention to glamp.
This is probably a good time to tell you that I enjoy camping. I really do. And the idea of roughing it in trainers did seem like an attractive idea. But a strange part of me felt like if I arrived in trainers, I’d be whole heartedly committing myself to a Bear Grylls lifestyle. I would be committing to the bugs, the grease, and the mud which so define my previous festival experiences. But this was Spain, not Britain, and in my ignorance I expected a relaxing holiday, full of rustic charm; a festival where I would return sun-kissed and gushing with new sophisticated Spanish phrases.
I was a Benicassim virgin, and quick to discover that luxury camping wasn’t an option. Even if it was a girly holiday.
Arriving at Beni, I soon realised the social hub of the town was undoubtedly the super market, wowing tourists with obscenely low priced vodka. It’s hard to say no to the 1 Euro vodka delicacy – ‘Knebep’ – or indeed, 2 Euro Sangria, when confronted with such bargains. My next discovery was that the website’s ‘close to town’ description of the campsite was more than generous, and that actually it’s more like a twenty minute endurance test through barren wasteland. Needless to say, the heels were soon stowed away in my bag to remain there for the duration of the holiday. This was the beginning of the end for my glamping ambitions.
Our first night was passed skilfully erecting a tent in the dark (amid swearing) and getting to know our neighbours. And the resident ants who decided, affectionately, to share our tent with us. The days prior to the music passed in one long blur of eating, swimming and of finding any appropriate shade to nurse our (already) impressive sun burn. Any dreams of returning to England sun-kissed were soon replaced with the more sincere reality of sun blisters and snake-like peeling. I became accustomed to the Beni way of life, and after four days of cowering in the corner of communal showers, I decided to disband any attempts for a dignified wash and joined the lines of bodies shaving. It was the first time I’d ever shaved in pubic. And oddly, I didn’t care.
By Thursday I was more than ready for the music, and ready to enter the giant car park cum playground which was the arena. The absence of Florence (and her Machine) showed markedly in the disheartened spirits of the fans. But after the initial disappointment, we were soon perked up by The Horrors, a band so indie they insisted on wearing leather jackets and skinny jeans in intense heat just to show they could. “Still Life” got the crowd involved, although Friday’s headliner Miles Kane won the medal for crowd participation, the musician rousing spirits to such a height that arbitrary outbursts of “Come Closer” became an accepted and even expected campsite occurrence. Miles Kane, besides Katy B, the Maccabees and Django Django made Friday a buzzing night, in addition to the cool stylings of Bombay Bicyle Club.
For me, however, it was Sunday that emerged victorious for best night of the festival, although seeing Crystal Castles batter the crowd on Saturday in a haze of electronica and pining vocals was a sure highlight. But it was Sunday headliners, the Vaccines, who left me overwhelmed. The sugar-coated melodies of Justin Young coupled with their iconic heavy reverb demonstrated how real pop done right can create instantaneous classics.
By the end of the week, I didn’t care that the nocturnal music had left me with severe sleep deficit, or that my hair had gradually formed natural dreadlocks. Even the 20 minute stagger into town became bearable, the sunburn a badge of pride for most if not all festival goers. Beni may have not been the luxury camping experience I (naively) expected, but it was so much more. Would I go back? It would be rude not to.
