We're big fans of BBC Radio 6 Music here at Marshside Acres, where the station's unique blend of quality rock and pop, ancient and modern, blasts continuously from the kitchen radio. So it was hard to resist the suggestion from the lady of the house that we troll up to Manchester to check out this festival thing. You had to be on the ball as the tickets sold out in (appropriately) 6 minutes but we secured a pair for the Friday and, me having done a deal to include a day or two in the Peak District, got ourselves organised.
The first bit of good news was that I managed to get a room in the Premier Inn almost literally a stone's throw from the venue but after that there was some less good news.
Now I hate to puncture the huge inflated balloon of self-love that has been hovering over 6 Music since the weekend, with the playlist heavily interspersed with live recordings from the do but...once inside the environs of the Victoria Warehouse, we were approached by programme sellers asking a staggering £8 for a running-order-on-a-lanyard thing, which you often get at these events. I was having none of this sort of rip off so laid about them with boot and fist. There was blood and teeth everywhere as we strode purposefully into the warehouse, looking for a simple bit of paper which would tell us who was playing where (there were two rooms) and when. Imagine my disgust to find no such thing existed. The security staff had them, oh yes, but they weren't going to risk damaging their £8 a throw sales by sharing this info with the humble paying punter.
Anger now simmering gently, we headed for the bar. Now I'm not completely naive; I've been to more gigs and festivals than many in the poorer parts of the world have had hot dinners and I know there's an unwritten law which says the bars at these places are going to charge well over the odds. Like many laws, it's a very bad one and like many other events, this one supported its usury by banning the possession of food and drink from the outside world. But get this: the price of the Stella Artois was £4.40 for a 33 cl bottle. Reader, let me save you the trouble and do the maths for you; are you sitting down? This works out to £7.54 a pint!!! Yes!! Really!! Bloody hell!!!
Tom Robinson delivers public health warning re beer prices. No one hears him over the din of chatter
The Heineken was a tad cheaper but only a tad. I've been to Wimbledon, Lords, various other sports grounds, almost any music venue you can name, many fairly swanky hotels around the world, not to mention of course hundreds of pubs but, here in a grimy warehouse, in a grimy part of industrial Manchester, not refrigerated, served in plastic bottles with plastic glasses, was the most expensive beer I've ever drunk.
What is the justification for this "think of a number and double it" pricing strategy? None at all of course, other than if people are going to be trapped in your premises for 7 hours or so with no other supply available, they have to either drink or expire so you can charge what you like. Handily placed cash machines were at the venue for those whose budgets had not factored in these from-another-galaxy prices. Still, look on the bright side; I might have been driving and restricting myself to water which was an even more staggering £2.50 for a small bottle. Trebles all round!
And just remember, this event is being organised by the BBC, already paid for by our licence fees not to mention the entry tickets (normally free for BBC shows aren't they? Not this one). Just remember, the reason why you pay so much more for a drink in the pub than from the supermarket is the pub's very considerable overheads. But at a do like this, the overheads are pretty close to zero, save for the hapless students behind the bar on minimum wage. The profit margins must be wonderful and I am hoping that our share of these will be refunded via some clever licence fee rebate. OK, you're right, I'd better not hold my breath...
Right, so once over this latest shock, things must improve, no? Well no and yes. As well as the two concert rooms, there was a "silent" disco, one of these things where you dance around wearing a pair of headphones. Now, I thought that the meaning of the word "silent" was about as clear as it's possible for it to be. Not in these parts apparently and the blaring racket blasted its way very easily though only a curtain separating it from the smaller of the two rooms. Incredible. And it's not just me; we were watching, and trying to listen to, Jimi Goodwin (the main man from Doves) and even he commented from the stage that he thought the disco was supposed to be "silent".
Midlake. Acoustic guitars no match for the "silent" disco and dodgy acoustics
The main room didn't suffer from the proximity of the not-at-all-silent disco but it did suffer from bad acoustics (hey, the place was a warehouse) and perhaps worse, the constant yapping of thousands of people seemingly happy (and rich enough) to get drunk and not bother listening to the band (actually maybe they were not drunk but stoned; perhaps because no drugs were on sale by the organisers, there seemed to be nothing to stop you bringing in your own). This was at its worst during Damon Albarn's set, pretty surprising seeing as he was headlining. But the trouble was that Mr A played all of his new, and rather quiet, solo album and nothing that anyone knew. Cue increased volume of chatter. Listening to Marc Riley's programme on 6 Music last night, I heard him say that he was looking forward to hearing the live recording of Damon's set as he couldn't hear it well from where he was standing at the gig. You were very much not alone Marc!
Anyway, one way and another, we had a pretty good time, despite all the stuff above. Midlake were especially good, as were Haim and a couple of the less well known acts like Weird Shapes.
But BBC, next time, please let us have some more punter-friendly prices and if you're not going to let us bring in our own beer, then please search everyone thoroughly for dope and pills so we can at least hear some of what's going on.
