The eMag Issue by The Carouser

The Carouser

The eMag Issue

Contents 4. Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Letter 5. Contributors 6. Wank Bank 8. Keith Richards 14. He Screams At The 19. Dave Vanian 22. Martin Turner 27. Rebellion Festival 38. Liquid Lunch 40. Big Red 42. Top 10 Drinking Records 46. Book Club 48. Literature 50. Carouser Coverage: Coventry Festival 56. Guide: Oktoberfest 58. Letters To The Carouser 3

Editor’s Letter

As I write this, The Carouser team is working really hard on the tenth issue. So hard that I’m considering going sober until it’s done... but only considering. This independent magazine has come a long way since our first issue, which was thinner than John Lydon’s hair. But now, our bookshelf sized collectable mag has more than 60 pages and contains no traditional adverts what so ever and we have you, the real carousers, to thank for that. What began as an alcoholic rambling on high priced whiskey and underplayed music, has become an exploration into the world of ‘60s and ‘70s rock ‘n’ roll. Here, of course, there is plenty of overlooked records to be discovered, just itching to soundtrack a Keith Moon-style session. Why that era? Well, who can deny the longlasting effects that The Beatles has had on music? Who dares to spit back in the face of punk? Which band do you know that does not trace their influences back to this time? And why the hell wouldn’t you learn from the great musicians who played before us? Plus, music aside, no one parties like Keith Richards. Some may say that we’re living in the past but they have to ask themselves, have they ever heard of chocolate mescaline? Most people born in the ‘80s and ‘90s haven’t. We’ve learned something from this time and we hope you do too. Relive the freedom land of the ‘60s and ‘70s with us and drink religiously. Because no one ever lived a life of rock ‘n’ roll on granola.

Mandy Morello Editor & Founder 4

Carousers

What’s Your Favourite Drink?

Irish Whiskey over a fist full of ice.

My favourite drink has got to be rum! Either Appletons or Plantation Pineapple. Can’t get better!

Illustrator, Sam Sephton @SamSephton

Writer, Libby Harris @L_Harris1

If it isn’t bending the rules, my favourite drink is one which I am yet to try but eagerly anticipate: Hangman’s Blood. I name this as my favourite because whenever I read the ingredients it makes me smile. It sounds lethal and yet is said to “taste very smooth, induces a somewhat metaphysical elation, and rarely leaves a hangover”. Ordering one at a bar would be extortionate and possibly illegal, but one lives in hope.

I don’t have one favorite drink , it all depends on my mood. But the one that gave me the best memories would be definitely red wine.

Writer, Jim Newcombe

Graphic Designer, Emma LeFerrand

@Idol_Threat

Editor Mandy Morello Graphic Designer & Illustrator Emma LeFerrand Writers David Harris, Steve Wright, Darius Drewe, Conor Buckley, Daniela CM, Libby Harris, Whitney Ribbins, Jim Newcombe Photographers: Emma LeFerrand, Paul Martin, Beth Halfpenny Published in 2017 TheCarouser.com

Wank Bank What we’re boning over this issue...

The Pleasures Of The Damned

Timisoreana Lager

One of poetries’ finest drinkers, Charles Bukowski’s work has been caputred in a biblesized book. It’s full of enough of his work to keep you entertained during a commute and heavy enough to use as a weapon if bothered during the journey. One of the things that makes Bukowski’s work so exciting is the brutally honest thoughts and insights into an ‘dirty old man’s’ mind. He had his own way with the ladies and a hard way with words. Take note.

Timisoreana pours a pale gold colour and has a biscuit aroma. It is quite malty for a lager with a slightly bready flavour and is little on the sweet side compared with some lagers. Pale lagers are softer than Pilsner style beers and have less hop character. Pale or Helles style lagers originated in Germany and can be found in most countries.

T2 Trainspotting

Black Sabbath Top

After following four neds on their adverntures down the toilet in the first Trainspotting movie, you’d have some will power on you to not wonder what happens 20 years later. With all the original cast and director, Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting lives on... for now.

At the time of writing, we’re fully immersed in the Halloween festivities and are listening to Bauhaus on repeat. So, when we came across this Black Sabbath tee, our inner creep had a little splurt. Though, we’re not entirely sure who’s elegantly moustached head belongs to...

The Rolling Stones

Instax Cameras

The Stones have revisited their roots in their new covers album, Blue & Lonesome. In this record a number of songs get a Mick Jagger twist backed by Keith and the boys experienced musicianry. Songs like ‘Hate To See You Go’ showcases that spunk and rhythm that made me fall in love with the band in the first place.

Much like a polaroid, these cameras print your photos almost instantly. In a digital world, photos are very rarely printed. We’re glad cameras like this are still around and are giving us more of an excuse to leave the phone at home.

Like A Rolling Stone

any say he’s immortal, others say he’s lucky. But almost everyone (including the man himself) is surprised that he is still alive. The notorious Rolling Stone guitarist Keith Richards is a man of legend. He slinked through the heydey of rock ‘n’ roll, ultimately shaping its sound and style. He was once voted ‘most likely to die’ almost ten years in a row for his off-stage hobbies and had a few too many runins with the police. His life is ‘rock n roll’ and was dubbed so long before it was cliché. And, if anything, he is the inspiration behind this very magazine. It all began in the ‘60s when he began the Rolling Stones with the fat lipped frontman Mick Jagger and the loose cannon Brian Jones. The ‘60s era was about liberation, freedom and excess amongst the youthquake and the Stones road that wave to success. Their anti-Beatle image appealed to the younger audience who wanted to rebel against the ‘50s ideology of their parents. But Keith’s anti-authoritarian mentality developed way before his teenage years. He hated School, and never did well. When he went to art school, he found solace in the guitar. Naturally, when he met a young Mick Jagger they started a new band to play old blues songs- a genre Keith is very passionate about. They moved in and lived with fellow guitarist Brian Jones and by 1964 they had a hit single with ‘Not Fade Away’. The Rolling Stones quickly gained an audience and was pasted into supporting slots for their idols. The screams from their fans became so loud that they couldn’t even hear what they were playing. Keith and Mick began to ditch the covers and write their own songs with a little help from The Beatles boys. The very first song to be credited

to the Richards/Jagger name was ‘Tell Me’, featured on their self-titled debut. But ‘As Tears Go By’ (released on 1965’s December’s Children) was their first song. The track was written after their manager locked the pair in a kitchen until they wrote an original song. After their popularity in England, the band headed to America to take on a whole new audience. Keith Richards felt like he was getting close to the ‘promised land’. America was the home of his idols Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry and Buddy Guy and that meant something special to the young guitarist. They relentlessly toured and released new music. Keith didn’t even receive a proper break until ‘67. “Satisfaction’ was their first big hit which Keith half wrote on the road. It was a huge success in the US, which was quickly followed up by ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’. The Stones sound was now born- a very raw, big balled, rock n roll band. As ‘67 came, so did Anita Pallenberg. Keith Richards swooped in on Brian Jones’ girlfriend and her sense of style rubbed off on him. He began wearing her clothes and taking her drugs. By the end of the year, Keith was a different man. Acid had made its way into the Stones’ lives and many others too as it did in the late ‘60s. Keith Richards has spoken of many parties and experiments including when he and John Lennon went on an acid road trip. He claimed that Lennon could never keep up with Keith’s stamina. One of Keith’s infamous parties was gatecrashed by the police who arrested Keith, Mick and a half-naked Marianne Faithful. The papers lapped up the story that Marianne was dressed in nothing but a towel and questioned the use of the Mars Bar that was left on the table. When

asked in court if the situation of Marianne’s dress was normal Keith replied, “We are not old men. We are not worried about petty morals.” This statement gave Keith a sentencing of a year of which he only served a single day. In the same year, the Stones made Their Satanic Majesties Request, their psychedelic album which had the first 3D album cover. Keith hated the fame and it was beginning to show. Brian Jones, who also began taking a similar relationship with drugs, died less than a month after he was kicked out of the band. The new line up including Mick Taylor held a concert in Brian’s name and released a host of white butterflies off in his memory. Later in the ‘60s, The Stones threw another famous concert, that would attract the wrong type of publicity. They held a free concert in Altamont and hired out the Hells Angels to man the security. Here, the band became notorious. There were four deaths including one of the Hells Angels stabbing someone to death in front of the stage. This concert would mark the end of the hippie culture.

Soon there also became some turmoil with Mick who began shooting a new movie with Anita Pallenberg. Performance was an ‘70s Avante garde movie in which the pair were lovers. Keith suspected that they took their roles beyond the cameras and were seeing each other behind his back. So, keen to get revenge, Keith slept with Mick’s girlfriend and also penned the hit ‘Gimme Shelter’. Heroin began to creep into Keith’s life more and more. When he knew he was severely addicted, he made several attempts to come off of it. Though he famously said, “I’ve never had a problem with drugs. I’ve had problems with the police.” It all came to a head when the taxman came knocking and asked for his nineteen. Slammed with a huge fine that they couldn’t afford to pay, the band left England forever as exiles. More than 50 years on, Keith Richards has stood the test of time. Still playing, still smoking and still laughing. His now cigarette-tainted chuckle still filling the canvas of silence that he decorates so well.

“I’ve never had a problem with drugs. I’ve had problems with the police.” 13

He Screams At The Tiger In Me Before Linda King was immortalized (or “trashed”, as she tells people) in Charles Bukowski’s brutal 1978 novel Women, she had been with the skid row savant on and off for five years. In the decades that passed after the release of Women, Linda’s account of their time together remained unknown to the public, until 2012 when she published the first edition of her memoir Loving And Hating Charles Bukowski. With a new, revised edition brought out earlier this year, and 2014 being the 20th year since Bukowski’s death, The Carouser called Linda up in St. George, Utah, where she now lives, to discuss her memories of The Great Lover, her response to Women, 6 and (of course) oral sex.

Tale Of Ordinary Madness Linda King was first attracted to Charles Bukowski the way many of us first were. “Bukowski struck me as a writer because of his simplicity of sentences and words,” Linda tells The Carouser, in her slight, cranky drawl. “You don’t have to struggle to read Bukowski.” Linda, now 74, was only 30 when she and Bukowski, 20 years her senior, begun their relationship. A poet, writer and artist herself (in the ‘70s she wrote and edited Purr magazine), Linda first met Bukowski at an L.A. poetry reading in 1970. After a typically sleazy encounter with Bukowski later on, where the writer put the moves on her, Linda began sculpting his head. “I sculpted poets, which was my theme kind of. Any poet that sent for me, I was straight to sculpture them. I probably sculptured more writers and poets than anybody.” Over the weeks it took to make the sculpture, with Bukowski coming over to Linda’s house regularly, her resolve to not get involved with the Dirty Old Man gradually wore down. “When I was sculpturing him, he’d go home and write these great letters to me. He really quite se-

duced me with them. He also started losing a lot of weight, lifting weights and everything. He’s not unattractive – well, he’s hairy and he’s quite unattractive, but he can be quite interestinglooking too. I never did think of him as being ugly like some people did, their view of him was quite different to how my view was.” In the ‘Bukowski’ section of her website, Linda recalls some of the sordid correspondence that the writer seduced her with: He sent me the [unpublished] poem Love Song – ‘I have eaten your cunt like a peach’ – which I read in the middle of the night and [it] turned on fire. I called him up and masturbated listening to his voice on the phone, and still I said... ‘No, he’s too old for me. I can’t. It’s crazy.’ Godomighty, I loved his humour, the look in his eyes, his sardonic comments and he kissed like... well, like great. Like moths to the flame, the Old Troll (Linda’s name for Bukowski) and the sculptress inevitably got together, igniting a half-decade love affair punctuated by lust, madness, and alcohol. In Loving And Hating Charles Bukowski, Linda’s memoir of their relationship, she describes their first month together, with Bukowski confronting unknown enemies coming out of the walls: He had a knife taped behind the door. He

jumped up five times a night facing murderers. He couldn’t sleep... and shadows spoke. Spirits stood around the bed watching us. Death walked down the sidewalk every night. “That could have been when he was coming down off alcohol, that happens when you detox,” Linda reflects. “Maybe there really was somebody that was after him.”

Raw With Love Beyond the alcohol-inspired paranoia, Linda reveals a Bukowski more complex than his reductive, über-macho literary persona Henry Chinaski would often believe. “Bukowski was a mixture of all kinds of things,” she clarifies. “He had a big ego first of all and he had a lot of humour – all the stuff that’s in his writing, his personality. He would say he was the best, the best of anybody. That was his theme throughout the relationship, ‘Bukowski was the best!’ But he had... his vulnerability, his shyness – and he had a streak of shyness, bashfulness, I’ve seen him blush, really turn red – along with this.” As described later on in Women, when Chinaski gets the fear over telling three different ladies he will spend Thanksgiving with them, Linda confirms that Bukowski was occasionally prone to attacks of decency. “He could be very moral. Sometimes when he was sober, his dirty old man side took a fight against his moral self.” Before briefly living together in 1973 (at 2440 Edgewater Terrace, Bukowski’s first move in nine years since settling at 5124 De Longpre Avenue, his previous home), the couple’s days were originally far removed from the war all the time that would later characterise their relationship, with daily trips to Bukowski’s beloved sanctuary, the horse racing track. “I can still win sometimes with his system!” laughs Linda. “We’d go down to the track and then come back in the evening when he mostly wrote anyway, from the evening hours ‘til probably midnight. I had kids so I’d go home to my own place.” At this stage, the two were totally smitten and just basking in each other’s company. “I’ve never had a man since that I had so many things in common with. We could work in the same house doing the same thing, that’s why it was unique. We would spend hours and hours together just laying on the bed and talking. Right

at the beginning he would stop drinking for me, for up to two months once. He was a different human being when he wasn’t drinking.” In revealing day-to-day life with Bukowski and what his personality was like in private, Linda has been touching on something most Bukowski fans have wondered at some point – just how accurate of a reflection was the art of the artist? What was it like to be in a relationship with the man who described sex in his work with such voracious verbs as pumping, bucking, and stroking, not to mention the wiping off on the sheets and taking a shit after? “He was very original, very graphic, and very witty, and he was as good in person as he was on the page. It was easy to be around him, he wasn’t a boring person at all; he was stimulating. And I’m quite witty too, so I could come up with some freakish stuff myself. We just enjoyed each other’s company along with all the lovemaking.” As Linda depicts in Loving And Hating..., the pair did indeed get up to plenty of lovemaking, and she claims that “I taught him all the tricks I knew”. But before the grand declarations Bukowski would make in the Love Song poem, however, he had never actually eaten pussy in his life. At fifty years old. Linda was aghast. “I just discussed it up front, because he never wrote about it in his books – Dirty Old Man and you don’t write about that? I told him my ex-husband didn’t enjoy oral sex so I was very precious about not getting the same type of guy. “I think he never experienced the sensual complexities of love,” continues Linda. “With the oral sex when he says, ‘Well, nobody ever asked me’ – what?! What kind of thing is that to say! We’re not supposed to have to ask! But there was a lot of men in that era, his age group, who never gave oral sex. It was the times Bukowski was raised. In my young life too, people weren’t talking about sex, or oral sex, it was looked down on. I was raised Mormon. The Bible’s against oral sex, it’s against homosexual sex – it doesn’t ever tell you, ‘Just enjoy yourself, this is good’. I had a breakdown in my early twenties. These discrepancies in the Bible upset me. I’m very spiritual and what disturbed me in my younger life was, ‘Sex is dirty’. I wanted sex to be spiritual. I had a spiritual love with Bukowski.” But soon enough, as these things so often go,

the relationship became more and more volatile, degenerating into enough drinking, fighting and fucking to inspire Chinaski’s exploits with the Lydia Vance character in Women. The problem often was, as readers will remember, Bukowski’s jealousy over the lively Linda, and her antics, strong-willed and recently liberated from her divorce. “There was a lot of jealousy involved. There was a part of him very lacking in confidence. I loved to dance and probably most men couldn’t stand it, not only him! Maybe I was too much.” Feisty and full of life, Linda had what Bukowski called vitality, and throughout our chat it seems that a lot of her vigour remains. The fire was a double-edged blade for Bukowski, though. As crazy as it drove him, he craved it all the same. “When I read Women again, the part where I’m throwing things and doing all this, [being] the panther-type woman, the snarling woman, Bukowski liked that. He created it too, he loved to create a scene. He was an actor and he could create a big scene wherever he went, at his own expense sometimes. He often carried on to provoke me. He was quite a changeable one, and he wasn’t one to endure things that bored him or things he didn’t like. He would immediately start something else when he was bored with people or scenes or parties, that was the creative side of him. He would create something

different, often making himself look as bad as anyone else!” Of course, this is Bukowski we’re talking about, so “making himself look as bad as anyone else” is a recurrent, and endearing, scenario in his work. And, to no one’s surprise, much of his relationship with Linda was coloured by alcohol. “A lot of the times when he was at his worst was with alcohol and I think some of those times I really did not forgive him for what he did. He would black out, he wouldn’t remember. I would question him enough and I knew he did not remember what he did. It felt like another energy would overtake him, I’d look at his eyes and think, ‘That’s not him.’” At this stage in his life, Bukowski mostly drank beer, “Schlitz,” Linda recalls, because it wasn’t too hard on his stomach. He did drink spirits “once in awhile, he liked Jack Daniel’s”, though the drunkard couldn’t drink the hard stuff anymore. “It tore him up really bad. He’d already had his stomach break open [as told in Life And Death In The Charity Ward] so his stomach was very sensitive. I tried to keep him off the hard stuff anyway because he got so crazy, and he got plenty drunk just on beer!”

Locked In The Arms Of A Crazy Life.

ever again when I told him, ‘That’s it!’ – that was my punishment!” she chuckles. Despite all the turmoil, Linda still followed his work after the demise of the relationship (“I bought all his books, I’ve got a whole library of them”), and she laughs frequently throughout our conversation about their life together.

Whether it was due to the on-off nature of his relationship with Linda, or that the myriad temptations, often literally knocking on his door, started to prove too much for him, Bukowski eventually began to tire of the relationship. “He threw it away, more than me, he didn’t value it,” contends Linda. “Of course, I was trying to keep up with him which doesn’t work at all. We used to get back together many times after we’d both been away and had other people. It was love that kept us going. [But] he probably started getting bored with ‘married life’ – it was almost like being married for a little while when we were actually living together. But he was only a tenant, he wasn’t a husband!”

“I’m at peace with Bukowski and Women. I wished him happiness, I didn’t have any objections to his marriage or anything else. He deserved happiness and success because he had a pretty rough life. Do I believe his marriage [to another Linda, Linda Lee Beighle, whom he met in 1976] had this kind of love that we had? No, I do not believe that. Through all of his writing after, I didn’t see it, I didn’t see the same emotions.”

The relationship ended one infamous night [as depicted in Women] after a drunken Linda went to Bukowski’s house, destroyed his books and threw his Royal Quiet DeLuxe typewriter into the street. She gave up Bukowski, and all his women, and L.A., in 1975, moving to Phoenix, Arizona. “I got pregnant and then lost the baby. I didn’t know if it was Bukowski’s, it was between three guys that I had been with. I wanted to get out of the ups and downs. He was putting me through some hell and I wanted out of being upset all the time. When I sold my house in L.A. that was the end.”

Which brings us to the question many Bukowski fans have been wondering: why did Linda wait all this time to publish Loving And Hating Charles Bukowski, especially if she is “at peace” with her former lover and his account of their relationship?

Throughout their five year stretch, Linda would be a muse for Bukowski, inspiring many of his poems, but she is most notoriously known as Lydia Vance, an understandably offensive characterisation for Linda, initially. “When Bukowski came out with Women I thought it was quite unfair to me. I remember when he first started that book, he called it The Great Lover, so maybe that tells something about it. He wanted to be The Great Lover.”

“There’s a lot of funny stuff in Women, but I want to tell my side of it. I think I expose a part of Bukowski in my book that he didn’t tell about himself. This is why my book about him is better than his book about me!” she laughs spryly. “I actually wrote Loving And Hating [after Women came out] but couldn’t get it published and I kinda just put it away. Finally, my son got it out and he gave it to me for my birthday, actually between covers. So, I started working on it again. It’s an important book because it’s a record of all these different things that happened between Bukowski and me, the whole gamut of emotion going on. The women’s lib movement just started out then in the ‘70s so it’s a record of that, in a different way than anybody else recorded it.”

Despite his piercing portrayal of her in the novel, Linda remains the only person Bukowski has ever dedicated two books to, the larger edition of Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, And General Tales Of Ordinary Madness (“I think he tried to change the dedication because we were split up at the time, but somehow it had already gone to press!”) and Mockingbird Wish Me Luck, both published in 1972. “[Aside from in Women] Bukowski didn’t write about me

Loving And Hating, a heartfelt, funny, and poignant book, is indeed a different sort of record, as well as an invaluable insight into Bukowski and the underground poetry scene of ‘70s L.A. And, of course, it’s almost as filthy as some of Bukowski’s own work. “I think Loving And Hating could take off if people realised it has as much explicit sex in it as Fifty Shades Of Grey! But I’m not worried. I’ve told my story. I can go on to the next book.”

Damned & Defiant

Like most first generation punk bands, The Damned are in the midst of their 40th Anniversary tour. Front man Dave Vanian tells Mandy Morello about the music industry today and what’s next for The Damned. I saw you a couple of weeks ago and noticed that your set today seemed very different. How do you keep your gigs so fresh? We change it around all the time. That keeps us on our toes. How do you manage to remember all the changes? There has been times when I haven’t and I’ll be like “lalala” and no one will notice. But generally, I’m pretty good. I mean, it’s amazing, you write the lyrics yourself and you still forget. We did have some songs that we hadn’t played for years on auto-cues. Someone said, “Oh don’t worry, we’ll put the lyrics on auto-cue”. And I’m looking at them and they’re all wrong! I’m singing the right words and all these wrong bloody words are coming up. So, you just have to re-

member them. Lets talk about your style… Well, I do love clothes. They’re all clothes that I wear normally. For the last three months we’ve been on tour I’ve been wearing frock coats, my collars and scarves and stuff. But it’s too warm for that today. Everyone in the band seems to have their own style too. Is it the same when it comes to musical inspiration? Well, there’s a bunch of songwriters in the band. It’s not just one viewpoint but everybody in the band has different things they like and different music they listen to. I mean Captain comes from a Prog rock era… Marc Bolan- the glam era. Brian James and myself have some in common like The Stooges. I listen to ’60s music- an-

ything that’s good basically. It’s quite eclectic. Recently I was looking at the CDs I have and I realised that three quarters of the CDs are all soundtracks with just music and no singing. Quite ironic that I’m a singer. It is! Has it always been that way? It changes. Obviously, I mean some things have changed. Feelings, emotions, love, hate… whatever, that’s all the same. The whole world’s changed since we first started. If you want to find out about something, some obscure film or something, you can just fire it up and there it is. We used to have to look for that stuff or even find somebody who is interested in the same things. It’s a lot easier now. I don’t know if it’s made it any better. I think something that grows organically is quite interesting. You know, give it some time. So with today’s technology, do you think if The Damned began today, you’d be the same band? I think we’d be the same band but we’d utilize all the things you can use. I mean, that would be the way that we would go. But now, if you are a band and 19/20 years old, it’s much easier to record, much easier to be seen by people. When we started, everything had to be paid for. You couldn’t record at home. It wasn’t possible. You might get one track or a stereo recording, that’s about it. And anywhere else you had to pay a fortune. Now you can put it on YouTube and people see it. It’s a difficult thing to get paid for. Because if you give it all away… Obviously, all the bands back then, from the beginning till now, will have had to go on some sort of pub circuit, rely on word of mouth and hopefully someone will write about it. Whereas now someone can write a song, record it in their bedroom then someone in Argentina, someone in New York,

someone in Japan can see it. That was unheard of in those days. We would have utilised all of that. I guess it would have came in handy when you had issues with labels back in the day. It was the way you had to do it. We had quite a lot of bad luck with managers and record labels. Some of it in the beginning was our fault and other times it was not our fault at all. In those days, when you used to travel up and down the country, you used to meet other bands late at night. A lot of those bands came from the ’50s and ’60s still, back in the ’70s. I would talk to them, and they would say the exact same things that we’ve been through but 10 or 15 years earlier. So it hadn’t changed at all. I think bands are more business savvy now. They understand how they’re getting ripped off. Very careful. Back then we were all about music and a lot of people did the other jobs, you kind of trusted them. A lot of times you shouldn’t have done. And how’s the music industry treating you now? Surprisingly well! I think there’s a new perception of a band. There was a time where you didn’t see a band go beyond 30 years old. There’s now bands that have been around a really long time and are still doing really interesting things. They never stop being interesting because they’re making interesting music. Like Iggy Pop never stopped being interesting because he’s making interesting music. Same with David Bowie. That’s the secret- it’s what we do. And I hear you’re working on interesting music? Yeah, we’re working on a new album. We’re try-

ing to get it released on the 1st of January. So that’s what we’re aiming for. We have to get it finished soon because we’ve only just started working on it. It’s challenging because we’re trying to push a few boundaries for ourselves and try to make it interesting. I’m really looking forward to it. A year has been taken off because this 40 years of punk thing. It’s great but you kind of want to move on.

I’m not putting any bands down. For some bands that’s fantastic. I mean, it would have been weird if The Ramones went off and did some concept album. Naturally, we just want to try different things. I think because we all listen to different types of music.

If I didn’t want to make new music, I could just sit back and play the stuff we’ve been playing forever but that’s not what it’s about. I’d like to think that I can occasionally make a record and make people think “What the hell was that?”

You always hope so. I hope for some new wave of music. I don’t know what it will be. I don’t think it will be guitar music.

Do you think another musical movement like punk might come around?

And you have quite a lot of loyal fans that will back you all the way… Yeah we do. They’ve come to expect that how we work will not be like how it was before. So it’s like “What’s The Damned coming up with now?” so that’s good. A lot of bands are kind of known for one thing. I mean they may get musically better but it’s still the same kind of music.

I got a feeling inside of me It›s kind of strange lik e a stormy sea I don›t know why, I d on›t know why I guess these things h ave got to be 21

On Another Planet: Martin Turner

As the man himself embarks on his Beauty Of Chaos Tour, Martin Turner spares a few moments with Whitney Ribbins to talk about the evolution of Wishbone Ash’s Argus. How was the first gig?

very dated. It still sounds fresh and full of life which is great. We’re also playing a few tunes from our most recent album called Written In The Stars. In fact, “Beauty Of Chaos” is one of those tracks. And we also play a variety of songs from the ’80s. From the olden days, as my children call it.

It was absolutely incredible. It was sold out. Ram-packed. Very enthusiastic crowd. One guy on the way out, he came over, grabbed hold of me and gave me a big kiss on the neck. Is that a first for you in all your years of touring?

What was the writing process of Written In The Stars to the writing process of Argus?

No, I’ve had this stuff before. Chris Difford, one of the guys in Squeeze. I went along to the Half Moon and he was playing the old Squeeze hits. They had a girl singing and it sounded absolutely brilliant for those songs. And I gave him a big kiss at the end.

Similar. I mean Argus was a wacky one. The themes on there were very big. “The King Will Come” is an Orthodox Christian concept straight out of the bible, pretty much, except the second verse it’s actually based on something from a Muslim book. It’s a bit of a hybrid. “The Warrior” for instance was something that bugged me for years. Why is it that a young man who was full of piss and wind and got a lot of energy, often gets harnessed by warmongers. And all these young thugs sign up to it. But I thought, wait a minute, people are gonna think that I advocate it. I thought I better write another song that’s a peace song that throws down the sword… I mean the two of them go together beautifully. “Throw Down The Sword” is kind of hidden. I did grow up as a young lad, and I was in the choir. I ended up head choir boy and singing all the time.

I’m sure he appreciated it greatly… How does it feel to be back on tour again? Yes! Well, I’ve been doing it since like the early sixties so it’s like a second home really. We’re doing the whole of the Argus album which I don’t think was ever done by the original band. It was released in 1972 so it’s now 45 years old. 45th anniversary… I doubt I’ll be doing it when it’s 50. I might be up in the big gig in the sky by then… It’s amazing, even though it [Argus] was recorded all those years ago, it’s fresh as a daisy. A lot of music from that era sounds

The process for me is the same- I’m a bit of

a wacky one. When I’m writing I have to get into what I call “semi-trance-like”. Then it seems to just come to me very quickly usually. Scribbling stuff down as quick as I can. The song “Written In The Stars” was exactly like that. I wrote it down so quickly I didn’t even have to think about it. When I read it back afterwards I thought, “My God! What is this?”. But it’s quite an intense lyric about the world and how everything is written in the stars. On a cosmic… and a personal level. I’ve been told throughout my lifetime by various weird and wonderful people that certain things would happen, and sure enough they did.

Right at the end of our tour in Australia, I was running on scotch and coke and Bolivian marching powder I think it’s called. I wasn’t eating properly, I didn’t really need anything else, that was enough. I was getting very thin and then I got sick. I started breaking down. Sweating, no energy and then I noticed that my wee wee had turned dark brown… So, I went to see a doctor in Australia and spoke to him for a while and told him everything that was wrong. He said, “Well I think you caught Hepatitis mate”. I thought, oh my God. I haven’t got time for that! He said, “Well, if you stop drinking and drugging and get to bed early mate, you might just be able to slip out of its grasp.” And he told me to take 5000 milligrams of vitamin C a day. I managed to shake it off. I think that was a point in my life where I was really being a bit excessive with alcohol.

Fantastic! And how does touring compare? Nowadays it’s rather different. We’re not playing to tens and thousands of people, we’re playing to a couple of hundred or a few hundred and we’re much more in charge of it. I drive the band with the equipment in it to gigs. We’ve got a sound man that travels with us. We call that exercise.

Well I know that you drive now so it’s a bit harder but do you still have a few? Obviously, one shouldn’t drink and drive. I must admit I was guilty of it in the ’70s. I was bad. You know the XJS 300 horse power car? And I got to the house, I got out of the car and I couldn’t stand up. I stumbled down the pavement and reached up to get the key in the door. I mean that is just awful. I’m not proud of that phase really.

So you’ve really stripped it back down to the basics then? Yeah, well I mean it’s not great if you have a hernia. Everything to do with rock ‘n’ roll music is heavy. The better equipment it is, the heavier it is. We travel a lot. If you haven’t got the gypsy spirit, it’s not a job for you really.

Nowadays, I’m really sensible about it. A great drink- a glass or two of wine. White wine. All my guys are beer drinkers basically. To me, German beer is the best. I don’t know what it is. They have very strict laws over there about the way it’s brewed. And it really is beautiful, clean. Pilsner! I mean the original stuff from Czechoslovakia. I will have a beer at the end of the gig on occasion. It quenches the thirst unlike anything else.

So could you go through what your rider used to be and what you rider is now? Back in the ’70s on the rider it would be a bottle of Bacardi (one of the guitar players), a bottle of brandy (our drummer) and a bottle of whiskey which I used to drink. Chivas Regal is the one they use to turn up with the most. I actually reached a point in 1976 where we were on the road for six months and I started drinking really heavily. It was the only way I could cope with being six months on the road. We’d get to a gig in the afternoon and it’s there so you start drinking. By the time I left the gig about midnight, I would have drunk half to three quarters of a bottle of scotch a daythat’s quite heavy.

Who’s your favourite person to drink with? My brother Kim. He worked with Police and Sting. One night in Torquay, he took me out to this restaurant and we had some really great food and had a bottle of wine or two. He looks at me and says, “Great meal wasn’t it?”. I said, it was brilliant Kim. And he said, “I just thought of something…. you used to wipe my arse!” He had a great sense of humour.

Photography By Manny Wilson

music is absolutely brilliant. I feel a kinship with them, partly because they come from the West Country and partly because the main guy, Matt Bellamy, clearly is influenced by classical music. Which I am as well, I grew up on classical music. I think a lot of that appears in Wishbone Ash stuff that I’ve written. To me, that is pseudo-classical melody that I am quite punking out. You don’t recognise it as that because its performed on electric instruments in a rock ‘n’ roll style. There’s something about that melodic aspect which you get from classical music. I do recognise that with him. I’ve not seen them but they’re albums are great.

So drinking buddies… he was probably the main one. And funnily enough I used to drink with my dad as well. I mean, we had a tough time during the teenage punk… It’s always difficult growing up. It was that awkward phase where he used to get on my case and I’ll tell him to sod off. Then, years later, when I was in my twenties, we gradually became really, really good friends. We used to love going to the pub and having a drink together. I was sitting there with him one day and I thought, I’ll freak him out. I was like, here, Ed! I’m seriously thinking about suing mum. He said, “Really? What on earth do you wanna go and do that for?” I said, well for having me modified and I want the bit back because I was circumcised from when I was a baby, right. He said to me, “No, no no you don’t wanna be doing that.” I said, why not? He said, “What you don’t understand is when they circumcised you, they threw away the wrong piece!” Hahaha!

So after your tour is over, do you want to carry on doing this for the foreseeable? Yes, I hope so! I can imagine that I will be performing on the stage until I drop. I really enjoy it, the travelling,working with my guys… We’ll be wanting to get into the studio and make another album. There’s a lot to be done on recordings, we’re doing a box set. We’re finishing off a video soundtrack at the moment. There’s a lot…

What do you think of the current music industry? Muse- they’ve been hugely successful. Their

Rebellion Festival 2017 The UKâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Annual Punk Festival All Photography By Paul Martin

LiquidLunch FOOD FIT FOR A ROCKSTAR

We head up north on a promise that Almost Famous are dishing up the best burgers in the North. Libby Harris tucks in to tell us more. Almost Famous had a bit of bad luck in 2013. Their original site had a fire that destroyed the kitchen and caused the roof to collapse. But this didn’t stop them, and, although they have refurbished the original building, it is their new site at the Great Northern Warehouse that catches our eye. Fairy lights hang from the windows in time for the Christmas season that has already taken over the city, and upon entering a wave of heat hits us. Although the big, round bar takes centre stage in the middle of the room it is the giant gorilla and cow statues that catches our eye. The walls are adorned with painted quotes mirroring Fight Club and Charlie Sheen. As we enter Arctic Monkeys is playing, but quickly changes to something a bit heavier, suggesting they’re appealing to a more diverse crowd. We sit down at a table which is filled with sweets. I have a sweet tooth and immediately want to smash it open but instead I try and take in everything on the bright and slightly busy menu. It’s a little overwhelming but the server appears to answer all our questions. The menu, luckily, has an option for everyone, with 9 beef burgers served on brioche buns, 3 ‘not burgers’ (which just means it isn’t beef but it’s still on a bun), 2 veggie options and 2 mammoth burgers served on pretzel buns. Everything sounds extravagant, from the ‘Johnny Mac’ which has both Doritos and a Mac Ball on top, to the ‘Good Morning Amer-

ica’ which has an egg, Cheerios and a pop tart included in the mix. There is a burger for any hangover or hunger desire possible. My first question is simple, what is a pretzel bun? The answer is it’s an alternative to brioche; it’s a little saltier, and has a bit more crunch if you’re not a fan of the soft buns everywhere else uses. I’m sold. I opt for a ‘Vinny Chase’ (a little pricey at £10 so I hope for the best) while my friend decides on a ‘River Phoenix’ -a house favourite. It’s understandable why the ‘River Phoenix’ is so popular. If you’re into this trend of bacon and BBQ, this is the burger for you. Served in a little red basket, you’d think it would look a little lonely, but it’s huge and impressive. ‘River Pheonix’ is a beef burger topped with cheese, bacon, onions, Frazzles (that’s right, Frazzles), Bacon Bacon Mayo, red chillies, BBQ sauce and ketchup. For £8, I’m impressed, and it looks like my friend is too because his burger is gone before I’ve eaten half of mine. I dig into mine hungrily, blown away by the amount of food on our table, doubting for a second that we ordered too much. Although my eyes have always been bigger than my stomach, I’m stubborn till the end. I bite into my burger, and the bun is like something I’ve never had before. Brioche buns are slightly overdone in my opinion, with even chains such as Byron’s using them–I don’t think they add the desired sweetness to a burger that everyone thinks they do. This, however, is brilliant. The flavours all complement each

other; although it’s simple with its two burgers and streaky bacon, it’s a cheese overload but I’m a big fan of cheese, and if you’re after a full, filthy, meaty burger, this is the one.

fectly, leaving you with that feeling of space for round two on your food. It’s reasonably priced at £4 a pint. Also on offer are Brooklyn and San Miguel on draught, with a number of bottled beers too. The ‘Danger and Mayhem’ is great for washing down any burger because the lightness of it works as a great contrast to those that have a bit more going on. However, with something like the Vinny Chase I think a classic Brooklyn lager works great for that American diner feel. There are also cocktails which are on average £7.50 which is arguably cheap in Manchester Bars.

Sauce is dripping down my chin as I decide to give the sides ago. I’m almost battling with my friend to get to the ‘Chicken Blasts’. Luckily, we ordered the hot sauce on the side, because dipping them in the sauce blows my head off. They’re pretty moreish and it’s a good size portion if you’re sharing as the ‘Blasts’ are a decent size and taste great with or without the hot sauce.

Admitting defeat on the food, we ask our server about the array of glass eagle shaped bottles above the bar. Apparently, it’s a house shot called Eagle’s Beak, a mix of Jack Daniels, mint, plum bitters and cherry. We give it a go instead of hitting dessert. It definitely wakes me up and tastes how I imagine Christmas to taste.

The ‘Magic Waffle Fries’ come in a basket like a little mountain but I don’t mind for the price of £4.50. These are criss-cross cut waffle fries with JD Maple Syrup and bacon rain (crispy bits of bacon) which tastes almost nostalgic. It’s a sweetness that compliments the fries perfectly. Then you have something better; the option to put popping candy on them. If I didn’t feel like enough of a kid already (I’m still covered in sauce), then eating candied fries has definitely hit the spot. The giggles come and eyes are rolling as I find amusement in my food.

It’s a shame to leave here, as it’s early afternoon but there’s a party vibe that is starting to really pick up and I want to stick around to see just how lively it gets. The staff are friendly and allowed to be themselves, with tattoos on show and a laid-back uniform; it looks like a great place to work. Although we must finally accept that we can handle no more food, but I can’t wait to come back and nurse my hangover here a few more times in the foreseeable future.

Mac Balls are simply what they say on the tin, little deep-fried balls of mac ‘n’ cheese. They’re tasty, but nothing special, and although the cheesy goodness hits the spot, I’ve had better in other places. As we fight our way through this mountain of food, we get onto the topics of drinks. My friend orders the house lager, ‘Danger and Mayhem’, a German pilsner. It’s light and refreshing which washes the burger down per-

Photography By Beth Halfpenny

d e R g i The B

Travel

I came across the Big Red many moons ago, while I was still a student. It was first known to me as the bar underneath the London Met Student Accommodation. I used to meet friends there for burgers and afternoon pints after class but a few years later, this pub became one of my regular hangouts.

They all sound like they’re named by an ageing pervert. I no doubt think that some men would get their cheap thrills when asking the bartenders for a shot to be met with an even icier glare than before. But other than this, the usual bog-standard beers are on display with a few well-known beers like Budweiser and Blue Moon.

Located in Holloway Road near the HM Prison, some may think that this pub looks like a strip club from the outside, however, this is not the case. The Big Red is one of the better known rock bars in North London, with a vast amount of loyal barflies and bikers. I am always overwhelmed with how dark the bar is on the inside. Even though there are massive windows at the front, the blacked out walls and candlelight make the bar feel like it is always the evening – even if it’s 2pm.

It is easy to lose track of time seeing as it’s always evening inside, and on this occasion I find myself getting drunk too quickly. I grab the menu and fall into a drunk food heaven. An American-style menu full of Brisket Burgers, jumbo hot dogs and mac and cheese balls stares back at me. All the best kinds of foods to soak up a stomach full of alcohol – cider, whiskey and some tequilas who gatecrashed the party. With too much to choose from I finally settle on the mac and cheese balls. They are sensational. I do wonder though how they manage to get this soggy pasta dish into a breadcrumb scrotum… hmm.

The bar staff, although friendly, seem a bit miserable but who could blame them? I’d be depressed if I had to work with an all-female-staff all night. I suppose this is a feature that makes the bar different. Another unique quality of this bar is their jukebox, playing music from Iron Maiden, Metallica and Guns n’ Roses to name a few. Not the best jukebox around but still great to see one. You also often have DJ nights and rock bands playing which will either have you dancing on their leather booths or dismissively playing some pool.

Another feature and iconic part of this bar that you just can’t miss are the eternally blocked female toilets. As the night continues they just keep getting worse and worse, until you are squatting over an overflowing toilet. By far, the most memorable time I’ve had was using the male toilets due to a major blockage in the ladies one. As I look inside the toilet bowl I am met by a pint glass with a massive dump inside. It begs to ask, did someone shit into the pint glass or was it a well aimed shit?

The whole bar is decorated with Americanstyle posters, pictures of half naked ladies and pinball machines. At the centre, you will find the bar counter with 4 different access points, all of which are hard to penetrate on any weekend evening. I head to the back as it tends to be quieter and get myself a cider. I never remember the price of the drinks, I just know that I give a £5 and I get some change back – works for me! Beside your typical variety of ciders, beers and spirits, the Big Red have a big list of shots; from ‘Redheaded Slut’ to ‘Blow Job’.

The Big Red is more than just a pub for many people. For some it’s an extension to their living room, for others a place to regularly come see live music and live acts. Whether its scantily clad ladies, fire breathing or local bands, there’s always something exciting to make you glad you’ve made the journey.

By Daniela CM

Top Ten Drinking Records

Rum Sodomy & The Lash By The Pogues

Steppenwolf By Steppenwolf

Sure enough, Shane McGowan and his boys are the perfect accompaniment for a drink... or ten. This Irish band seems to make the perfect music for drunks, and this album just might entertain the sober ones too. The title is taken from a famous Churchill quote which accurately describes The Pogues in one. Rum, Sodomy & The Lash is a folk rock classic that deserves to soundtrack at least one of your nights out.

You may have heard Steppenwolf’s hit song ‘Born To Be Wild’. Although that is a great song to drink to, this whole record is filled with more potential tracks to chuck some whiskey back to. ‘The Pusher’ and ‘Hootchie Cootchie Man’ are real beer swiggers that have found themselves to be jukebox essentials at any biker bar. So get your motor running and head to your local... actually leave your motor at home.

Vagabonds Of The Western World By Thin Lizzy

The Doors By The Doors

One of Thin Lizzy’s earlier record stands out to me as more of drinking record. Before the drugs, and before the fame there was this masterpiece that projected the band into legend. This record contains hits such as Irish classic ‘Whiskey In The Jar’ and ‘The Rocker’ which have become a drinking staple for The Carousers. Let Phil Lynott coo you into a beer coma.

Jim Morrison loved to drink and so did his fellow band mates. So, it’s only right that they turned their most important external thoughts such as ‘Show me the way to the next whiskey bar’ and ‘Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen’ into song. As far as debuts go, The Doors’ self-titled record is iconic- which is why it pairs well with an iconic night.

Back In Black By AC/DC

KISS By KISS

Back In Black is the seventh studio album by the Aussie rockers AC/DC. This is the album that cemented the band’s success and it’s easy to see why. Every song is an absolute belter. Brian Johnson’s high pitched falsetto mixed with some interesting riffs is the perfect recipe for a night out and a great song. In the words of AC/DC ‘Have A Drink On Me’.

As much as I detest bands who appear to bleed their fans dry, this record by ‘70s clowns KISS is hard to ignore. Before they introduced disco to rock, KISS created this party of an album. Songs like ‘Cold Gin’ and ‘The Strutter’ belong on every house party playlist. It has a sound so strong that I might be able to overlook Gene’s hand gesture copyright suit...

Desperado By The Eagles

Ace Of Spades By Motorhead

Desperado fills my every Western fantasy as well as a backdrop to bourbon shooting. The Eagles set out to make a concept album and ended up with just a really decent collection of songs. Key tracks include the racy ‘Tequila Sunrise’, the sharp tones of ‘Saturday Night’ and the gutsy ‘Outlaw Man’ are your wingmen. With this selection, you’ll never be drinking alone.

Motorhead’s best selling record is the ultimate enabler for a night out. I mean, how can you resist that first scotch after hearing ‘Live To Win’? And I dare anyone to listen to the ‘Ace Of Spades’ and refrain from swinging however much hair you have on your head. These boys encouraged everyone to live fast. Even if that was advice soaked in speed, we’ll take it.

Staff Picks The Who - My Generation

Raw Power By The Stooges How I’d love to have a drink with this man and perhaps one day I might. Until that happens, Raw Power will do. Countless nights have I laid sprawled out drunk listening to ‘Search And Destroy’. By the time I get round to ‘Penetration’, ‘I Need Somebody’. I can’t think of anything more perfect as a drinking record.

The Kinks - Self Titled

Tres Hombres By ZZ Top Usually if I met three men with similar beards in a bar, I would head straight home for fear of losing my shit. But not ZZ Top. ‘Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers’ is an anthem for drunk men (& women) all over the world. This is our battle cry along with the rest of a steaming album, ZZ Top, you did us proud.

Head to thecarouser.com/tag/playlists/ to listen to our favourite tracks

Book Club

What do you buy a rock music fan for Christmas? My recommendation would be to read Sound and Vision. It’s a fascinating, amusing and beautifully illustrated music book by writer and comic artist John Riordan. John has produced a book containing introductions to 100 influential artists from the 1970s to the present day. The 1970s is represented by 23 artists ranging from punk: Iggy Pop, Ramones, Clash, Sex Pistols; Art music: Kraftwerk, Devo, Roxy Music; singer songwriters: Joni Mitchell, Elvis Costello and Tom Waits to big influences like David Bowie and Lou Reed. Each artist gets a brief biography, John’s own view and a pop trivia slot. He carefully avoids the big guns approach and leaves out multi million sellers such as Abba, Pink Floyd, Queen and Fleetwood Mac. In the 1990s it looked like rock music was centre stage again with the emergence of Grunge and Britpop. Blur, Pulp, Oasis and Nirvana are all featured along with hard to categorize artists such as Bjork. Dance was also crossing boundaries with bands such as Chemical Brothers and Aphex Twin. 1990’s best sellers

Spice Girls and Celine Dion are justifiably forgotten, but are still available at your local charity shop. The last two chapters take us from 2000 up to the present date. It is easy with hindsight to look back and single out bands from the past that still sound good today. It is much harder to make judgements about contemporary artists and second guess their longevity. Arctic Monkeys, Queens of the Stone Age, Goldfrapp, White Denim, Lucius and Tame Impala are a few of Riordan’s nominations for future halls of fame. What really stands out in this book is the author’s genuine love of the music. He has actually listened to all the bands and writes with real enthusiasm about their music. The comic book illustrations of each artist are spot on and beautifully drawn. This is a lovely book to browse through and make lists of bands to listen out for. Any rock fan would be more than pleased to get this book as a Christmas present or at any other time of the year.

By David Harris Editor’s Pick

Gibbs gives us all we need to feel like we’re along for the ride. Going on tour, especially with a intriguing character like Iggy Pop, is the thing of dreams. Most notably of all, we meet Jim Osterberg- the teacher’s son and the man behind the alter ego of Iggy Pop. Some Weird Sin lets us live out our dream vicariously.

Literature A rebel column is marching on the Kremlin. Windows of the FSB rooms are blowing out. Bitches are shitting themselves behind red walls. Riot announces, Abort the System! Attack at dawn? I won’t object. For our freedom and yours I punish them with my lash. The glorious Madonna will teach you how to fight. The feminist Magdalene went to a protest march Riot in Russia – charisma of protest! Riot in Russia – Putin peed his pants! Riot in Russia – we exist! Riot in Russia – Riot, Riot! Go out to the streets, Live on the Red, Show the freedom Of civic anger. Sick of the culture of male hysteria The savage cult of the leader devours your brain Orthodox religion of a hard penis Patients are offered treatment by conformity The regime is moving towards censoring dreams It’s about time for a clashing confrontation A pack of bitches from the sexist regime Beg forgiveness from the feminist fiends Riot in Russia – charisma of protest! Riot in Russia – Putin peed his pants! Riot in Russia – we exist! Riot in Russia – Riot, Riot! Go out to the streets, Live on the Red, Show the freedom Of civic anger.

Extract from Pussy Riot member Maria Alyokhina’s new memoir Riot Days.

ag r e v o C r arouse

We Happy Few

Some measured deliberations on this 2017 Cambridge Rock, and where the small-scale rock festival in general stands in the late 2010s. Words By Darius Drewe

Illustration By Emma LeFerrand

It was never like this in my youth. Well, OK, to a certain extent it was. But still, nowhere near as much as “they’d” have you believe it had once been in the free-love heyday of ‘65-’75 - and even that, though similarly overstocked with choice aplenty, was an entirely different kettle of luminous fish. Naked body painting, Edgar Broughton and his pals playing for free from the backs of trucks with their engines still running in case “pigfilth” arrived, hordes of revellers having their minds blown by Captain Beefheart and the Grateful Dead whilst floating in a pool of stagnant water outside Wigan… my elders had all that and more. Similarly, if you happened to be on the “crusty” or “festi” scene a decade or so later (well, anytime between 1985 and 1992, really) there would always be some “happening” at which you and several hundred other wizard-hatted, parrot-waving loons (very often the younger siblings of the preceding era’s casualties) could congregate: warm memories of which, I’m sure, some of this weekend’s attendees may find themselves gently recalling over the dying embers of their nocturnal campfires. Names like Stonehenge, Deeply Vale and its assorted offshoots, Strawberry Fayre, the pre-commercial (ie free) Glastonbury, Cropredy and the now-infamous Treworgey Tree Fayre are now writ large across the history books of music- and apart from the last-named, which only happened once (ask any of my friends who attended and they’ll tell you why) all were semi-regular occurrences, their dates and times usually advertised in the back pages of Freakbeat, Terrascope, Bucketful Of Brains and whatever else passed for the “underground” music press of the age. Unfortunately, the one key difference between the “hazy daze” of ’71 and the far more cynical climate of ’17 is that there’s no longer any guarantee any cunt will turn up to see it: in which case, the imperative is to find and consolidate your niche, always giving your audience what they want but subtly adding something a little different each time. Dave Roberts, promoter of the Cambridge Rock Festival, is a man who’s done precisely that: since he first began running the event some 14 years ago, he’s consistently striven to provide a mixture of old and new, challenging and cosy, housed in an environment more akin to a village fete than your archetypal rock bash. A congenial, convivial place where the assorted sub-genres, siblings and offshoots of classic rock can co-exist comfortably without pressure: unlike many festivals, it lasts not three, but four days (sometimes five if a charity fundraiser night is added) and rarely costs over £150 including camping for the whole shebang, thus also offering immense value for money. For that fee, audiences since 2004 have been able to witness acts ranging from classic and neo-proggers (Marillion, Barclay James Harvest, Asia, Focus, It Bites) pub-rock stalwarts (Dr Feelgood, the Blockheads, Eddie & The Hot Rods, Nine Below Zero) and psych legends (Pete Brown, Man, Juicy Lucy) to NWOBHM cultists (Praying Mantis) and such

New Wave originators as The Stranglers and Hazel O’Connor: most significantly, the festival has also charted the slow but steady rise of York-based progMetallers Mostly Autumn (now very much its flagship act) to the point where it simply wouldn’t feel the same without their yearly appearance. Equally warm welcomes are offered to patrons old and new, and if you are a regular, the chances are you’ll bump into someone with whom you’ve formerly shared a “transcendent musical experience” (heyyyy….) before you’ve even got your tent pegged. Yet, in spite of its dedicated following, and an ever-lengthening list of acts both national and local angling to play, staging such a show is far from plain sailing: indeed, every Spring, Roberts and his colleagues have to endure the morally demeaning process of justifying the previous year’s event whilst simultaneously applying to license the next. A matter of some undeniable weight, compounded considerably when the landowners of the most recent site either (a) raise objections or (b) transpire to have already earmarked their good earth for other purposes: yet thankfully, and in spite of a relatively rocky start, this year’s festival eventually found itself rescued when one Adrian Bayford, former record shop owner and EuroMillions winner to the tune of £148,000,000, kindly offered to hold it in his own back garden. The complete and utter lack of “status barrier” between musicians, press and fans here (OK, maybe not the year Asia played, but you get my drift) also means that having witnessed someone create something truly special onstage, practically anyone can hang out, chat or even enjoy a beer with them afterwards. Hence, it’s less than one hour after watching Chantel McGregor deliver a storming set of some of the most powerful blues-rock guitar playing I’ve ever witnessed (“Robin Trower in a frock” being the precise phrase scrawled in my notebook) that I end up helping her carry an unwieldy quartet of pints to her table and enjoying several minutes of her good-natured “Yorksher” banter into the bargain. In fact, come to think of it, I met Panic Room frontwoman Anne-Marie Helder - someone I now regard as a good pal- here last year under much the same circumstances. You certainly don’t get that sort of camaraderie at Ramblin’ Man or Download. At a larger event, it would probably take as long to navigate between stages as it does to shuffle from Monument to Bank in the rush-hour, but here, the intimacy of the surroundings (another major plus point) means I can “sandwich” my view of Malcolm Bruce ‘twixt two slices of Brit AOR gods FM. A band whose very presence is in itself an encouraging factor. Sure, their radio-friendly, Survivor/ Foreigner/Charlie-influenced melodic rock may not be to the tastes of every punter, least of all the hardcore progsters, but once again, Roberts is shrewd enough to know that they will attract a sizeable enough crowd of their own to that night’s “rock stage”. What’s more, even if those same people don’t stick around all weekend, at least they’ve paid, attended and taken away a fond memory of their visit with them. Then, next year, who knows? And, if you don’t want to watch either Bruce Jr doing his thang or Messrs Overland, Jupp, Kirkpatrick et al ably ripping through the likes of ‘Bad Luck’, ‘That

Girl’ and ‘Tearing My Heart Down’ (never mind the total aural surprise that is ‘Shot In The Dark’, the song Overland originally cut with Wildfire before bassist/co-writer Phil Soussan ahem, “donated” it to a certain Brummie metal legend) there’s always the highly comical ska-punk experience of Jason And The Skagonauts to amuse you next door. Or, just further along, some blues. At Cambridge, there’s always plenty of blues on offer- and a thoroughly good-time brand it is too. OK, I’ll grant that there are two sides to everything, and yes, there is some credence to the theory that the brand of blues often purveyed by festivals such as this- suburban, middle-class and bearing little resemblance to either the original black American sound or the second-generation late ‘60s Brit vintage- errs on the wrong side of cheese. Indeed, one only has to observe the sheer proliferation of pointless Hendrix covers purveyed across all three stages this year for proof of that contention. However, whilst certain acts I’ve witnessed here in the last decade have been, shall we say, “less than inspirational”, I’ve never seen one of them fail to connect with the audience. As Pete New, a regular attendee, explains in the coffee gazebo on Friday, the responsibility of a “labour of love” festival like this (to whit, that of understanding your crowd and how to entertain them without pandering) is one that falls as much on the musicians’ shoulders as it does the organisers. And, true to form, a labour of love is precisely what Cambridge has been since day one. Having already worked in the local music business for some years, Roberts (with additional backing from the Yorkshire-based Classic Rock Society) conceived and started the festival with one principal aim: to promote, encourage and offer a platform to the kind of bands he loved and believed to be largely unrepresented by the “corporate” rock scene of the early ‘00s. What’s more, he was right- at that time, even though Classic Rock magazine (no relation) had existed for five years and already helped to redefine several public misconceptions, a lot of people were still sniffy about admitting their passion for any prog not recorded by Germans, and as for AOR, that was just something to “ironically” pretend you liked whilst attending theme clubs like Prom Night and School Disco. And even then, it was always the same five bloody tunes. Back at the campsite that night, as the second day’s festivities wind down and the “good burghers” of CRF017’s nylon village gather round their chairs and skillets, things are not quite as hunky dory as the amiable ambience of the immediately preceding three hours would have had you think. Several patrons are becoming increasingly concerned about the behaviour of the “night security” men, whose presence is a new addition to the CRF set up: among those affronted are three jovial, friendly West Ham-supporting brothers from Stratford E15 (with whom I perhaps unsurprisingly bond almost instantly) and a couple of hippie chaps from Saahf East Lahndahn, none of whom appear to have behaved in any way that might be construed “aaht of ordah”, yet whom the burlies still seem hell-bent on telling to “moderate their noise” and “go to bed” in condescending, passive-aggressive tones of voice. Something which seemingly also applies to anyone

else still found having a conversation at reasonable volumes after 1 am. An intrusive attitude, which would usually be annoying enough on its own at any boutique festival: however, they also seem inclined towards compounding the error by repeatedly circling the site throughout the small hours with their van lights on full beam, which to my mind is far more disturbing than any amount of campfire chatter. And, dare I say, a little sinister. Whether they work for Bayford or the local council (reports filter through that this year is very much a “dry run” to see whether the local pen-pushers decide to okay the site for 2018) is unclear, but either way, these ‘men from the ministry’ certainly aren’t making themselves very popular: again, I keep hearing “mixed reports” that their over-zealous monitoring stems from an “incident” that occurred the night before my arrival, but nonetheless, throughout my entire time in situ, almost the only negative comments I hear seem to revolve around their continual presence and carping tone. A situation which, if this were my festival, I’d be rather concerned about- but, being the objective type of cove I am, I can also examine the situation rationally from three different viewpoints. The stewards that did serve a useful purpose, however (of which there are loads of them) were among the friendliest, warmest and politest you could hope to meet: they didn’t miss a trick either, seizing upon every possible opportunity to clear areas of trash, help anyone in health-related trouble, and point those with queries in any number of helpful directions. Most importantly of all, unlike the nocturnal van-gorillas, they appear to be genuine lovers of the music: several can be spotted happily bopping away to the dirty R’n’B of Split Whiskers, whilst during John Otway’s set, I catch at least two yelling along at full pelt to “Bunsen Burner” and “Cheryl’s Going Home”. Then again, how could anyone not? Otway is a genuine genius- and another essential part of the rich CRF flavour. Sure, his infamous reliance on bopping himself on the head with all forms of paraphernalia, juggling live mike cables and utilising “gimmick” instruments such as triangular guitars, theremins and ladder-microphones (the latter predating Julian Cope’s experiments with same, just in case anyone wondered) may still prevent some from taking him too seriously, but the fact remains that beneath all that bluster beats the heart of a truly great British songwriter. As in Ray Davies, Glenn Tilbrook, Nick Lowe or Graham Parker good- which by anyone else’s reckoning is brilliant. Evidently, many of those present have seen the balding Bucks eccentric do his schtick several times over- “he’s been here a fair bit in the past”, an Italian Cockney called Julio tells me, “and if it’s not him, it’s his collaborator, Wild Willy Barrett. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get both at once…” An outwardly innocuous statement: but one which does raise another valid point about festivals today, and which can again be viewed, like a well-authored DVD, from a variety of angles. At last year’s Cambridge, I did hear dissent from a certain (albeit small) faction who seemed disheartened to find themselves faced with such ubiquitous names as Carl Palmer, Cregan & Co and yes, Mostly

Autumn (dubbed by one ungracious sort as “Mainly Awful”) once again. Yet for some reason, that’s something that never bothers me about this festival: rather, the familiarity and regularity of several acts here is something I openly anticipate.

fore one’s eyes, and we remember them all with a cohesion one wouldn’t even usually apply to one’s daily shopping list. The fact that the music itself makes for such a memorable soundtrack probably doesn’t harm matters either…

Son Of Man, by way of example, were fucking astounding last year- and even though the succeeding twelve months have seen the passing of yet another original Man Band member in Deke Leonard, whose contributions to their set represented for me the highlight of CRF 2016, I just knew they were going to be as good this time around. And they were. Granted, the new material may be “a bit AOR”, but they’re still the single most crushingly powerful act on the bill- and by the time I’ve run down the front (something else I only ever seem to do here) to have my lug’oles roundly assaulted by Spunk Rock, Bananas, Daughter Of The Fireplace and 7171-551, I feel like I’ve been beautifully bludgeoned by a large hallucinogenic spoon of music. To paraphrase Ralph Arliss’ odious gang leader Kickalong in Quatermass: I knew it would happen- and it did.

The only trouble is, there’s so much of it- and that can be extremely problematic for those of us with eclectic tastes. Sure, Eddie And The Hot Rods may well be on fire, blazing their way through umpteen shotgun slices of supercharged R’n’B/punk’n’roll like they were still in their twenties: but that doesn’t stop me from forgetfully (as in “seven pints of golden ale” forgetfully) wandering to the Acoustic Tent during what I believe to be the middle of their main set to catch eight minutes of ex-Mostly Autumn chanteuse Heather Findlay, promptly missing their two best songs (‘Do Anything You Wanna Do’ and ‘Beginning Of The End’) in the process!! Wot a fahkin mahppet!

Maybe Cambridge simply is great because it is precisely what it feels and looks like: not just a load of bods stood round quaffing beer and stuffing their faces while bands make background noise, but a genuine chance to spend four days a year watching bands you wouldn’t see anywhere else in the company of several great mates you don’t usually meet anywhere else. Except that sometimes you do: lifelong friendships have been forged (and, so they tell me, a few relationships, although I have to say I’ve never been blessed in the latter department whilst attending, nor looked for such an encounter). As High Wycombe-based window cleaner Neil, an enthusiastic prog/hard rock collector and famed eccentric figure I first met several years ago through the South Bucks rock scene, offers: “It’s the people that make it. You don’t just come for the bands, you come to socialise with the regulars.”

The ale selection itself, however, can only be commended- even if by day three, my epiglottis does feel like the inside of a yeast factory. Granted, there are a few less casks on offer than last timebut over three days, I, my tokens and my engraved plastic pint-glass (purchase on entry and proceeds go to charity, another natty idea) can still sample almost as many liquid delights as we can musical ones, which is almost reason enough for attendance in itself. I just wish I could remember what half of them were called. More encouragingly, in direct contrast to the tendency of most mainstream festivals to mount their stages at opposing open ends with their beer tents practically in separate villages, everything here is safely contained under the canvas of three closely adjacent marquees. Thus not only do you remain dry at all times whilst enjoying some top-quality prog, metal, blues or folk, but you can do so with a refreshing ale, lager or perry in your hand at most (if not all) times.

And Neil should know: since the festival planted its inaugural tie-dye flag on a patch of nearby ground some 13 years ago, he’s attended nearly every one, during which time he’s gotten to know a number of equally bonkers and likeable individuals. A perfect example is Russell, from nearby Godmanchester: with his long black hair, Red Indian apparel and distinctive white “mountain sandals”, he’s always easily recognisable, as are South Londoner Yvonne and her five-plus group of friends/partners known for visually obvious reasons as the “biking Vikings”. In turn, over the four random years I’ve attended, those same people have gotten to know me too: in fact, sometimes, you forget just how many people you’ve met, such as the bloke in a Leaf Hound t-shirt to whom I exclaimed “I used to promote them”, only to be promptly informed “I think you told me that last year!!”.

Similarly, because of the close-contact engineering and “muck in together” spirit involved, attendees are consistently guaranteed a quality sonic display with crystal-clear mixes. The CRF sound & light desks are these days a shining, gleaming example to us all: whether acoustic or electric, and regardless of genre, every nuance is magnified, amplified and tweaked to perfection, with the searing guitars and screaming Metaaaaaal vocals of Geordie NOBWOB legends Tygers Of Pan Tang, the spidery keyboard passages and juddering rhythms of Welsh neo-prog overlords’n’ladies Magenta, the bludgeoningly heavy blues of Buster James, the incongruously urban (yet deliciously catchy) Mott/Hanoi/Dogs-style sleaze of the Last Great Dreamers, the drifting, grooving “Winwood meets Springsteen” vibe of Ben Poole and (or so I’m told, I was in Wetherspoons at the time) the twistyturny jazz-fusion of Kinky Wizzards all benefitting in no uncertain terms from their power.

Here, anecdotal recollections abound and flow freely: everyone, it would seem, has their own favourite Cambs-based anecdotes to relate, from non-existent species of insects (“flants”) to extremely, er, “stimulated” walks across the campsite in one’s pyjamas talking complete gibberish and watching the area turn into parts of Romford be-

Come Saturday, I’m indulging in another fun CRF tradition, namely the “guess who’s dropped out of the bill this time” game. Again, rather than getting disappointed by this curiously reliable occurrence, I chose to perceive it as an integral part of the festive frolicks: last year, seminal Notting Hill anarcho-psychsters The Pink Fairies took up the baton,

but this year, surprisingly, it’s down to MK-based Floydists The Mentulls (a band who have been integrally associated with the festival since their inception) to play that card. Their absence permits the festival’s other flagship act Pearl Handled Revolver (Bedfordshire’s very own Doors, only with a far less twatty frontman) an extended half-hour’s worth of exploratory, mind-melting psychfuck. Suits me, sir… They don’t even have to undertake any extra twiddlage to achieve this: with the same instrumentation as their errant pals (vocals, one guitar, Hammond organ, drums and no bass) the backline’s identical anyway. The only sad thing, I muse as they plough through their transcendent, dreamlike epic ‘If The Devil Cast His Net’ (a truly evocative mood piece recalling Iron Butterfly, Vanilla Fudge, Procol Harum or Nick Simper’s Warhorse at their peak) is that whilst everyone present (and believe me, the tent is rammed to capacity for them like it is every year) is going absolutely apeshit, there is nonetheless a slight feeling of “preaching to the choir” about the whole affair. Put simply, in an ideal world, their triumphant performance should be being witnessed by a crowd thrice this size: there’s no doubt whatsoever that Cambridge loves them and they love Cambridge, but frankly, that’s nowhere near enough for a band of this calibre. Yet for some reason, it’s always been this way with them- right across the course of four albums and three EPs. Rarely do they ever play outside of Bedford, MK or Cambs, only usually venturing into the metropolis in the company of friend and mentor Del Bromham: on the other hand, maybe they’re right in that decision. Cambridge Rock does to a certain extent pride itself on being the music scene’s “best-kept secret”, self-perpetuating niche institutions don’t pay any bills. They don’t even pay Dave Roberts’ own: indeed, there have been some name bands (though they’ll remain nameless here) who after one solitary performance have refused to return because of, shall we say, “organisational disagreements”. Which just goes to prove that old adage that tragically, you can’t please everyone all the time. A similar sense of resignation is to be engendered from watching the equally wonderful Doris Brendel. Sure, she and her posse are relatively mobile compared to PHR, touring the country with a variety of acts including Fish, Jump, The Room and (Andy Powell’s) Wishbone Ash, and her old band The Violet Hour made a fair trek or two across the civic centres of the early 90s with Marillion (trust me, I was there) but for the most part, the annual CRF crowd is fast shaping up to be her strongest following, and once again, you can’t help wishing more people

knew she even existed. Nevertheless, it’s a following I’m unashamed to consider myself part of, and it’s the second year in a row I’ve been blown away enough by the new material to buy- well- a t-shirt. Not only does Doris possess a stunning vocal range and some of the very best outfits since Marie Lloyd (not that the Cockney songbird was ever known for donning UV gloves, mind you) but her breadth of influences, ranging from Joplin to Genesis via Jethro Tull, Stevie Wonder and Current 93, is astounding, her band (anchored by guitarist-husband Lee Dunham- not since Mathew McFayden have I been so jealous of one man) is as tight as the proverbial gnat’s, and her sparkling eyes, red hair and North London Jewish bonhomie instantly render her the festival’s most stunning visual aspect. Such is her talent, all one can ultimately hope is that though she may sing of how the Devil (a recurrent lyrical theme among a few of the bands here this year) has closed his door on her, several more open in return. Like all great experiences that have a beginning, middle and end, a good festival can invoke a number of emotional peaks and troughs, not least to those of us already of quite a sensitive inclination. Which is why, by the time Sunday rolls around, I still can’t quite believe it’s come so soon: my fellow ‘Ammers have already buggered orffski, as they all have early starts on Monday. There are noticeably fewer tents over at Nylon Village in general, and at least two of the burger/noodle/crepe/ whatever stalls are dwindling slightly on the supplies front, all serving to remind us of the finite nature of human enjoyment. To top it all, some cnut’s been counterfeiting the black beer tokens (although the mind still boggles as to how precisely they managed this- did they set up a smelting press in their tent?) meaning we can now only buy the grey ones at half value, and have to fill our pockets with twice as much paraphernalia!! Honestly, some people. When you find yourself randomly bumping- as I do- into musicians, some very interesting chats can also be had during a gig. “I’m still half and half about this lot”, whispers one of my old Camden compadres during Mostly Autumn’s thirteenth CRF performance: “the drummer’s brilliant, I love the flautist (Angela Gordon) and Livvy’s a superb singer, but it’s all a bit Metal for me to be honest, and I never was a big fan of that Gilmour-style guitar sound, even from Dave Gilmour…”. That said, if that bloke thought Mostly were “metal”, gawd alone knows what he’d have made of that morning’s openers A Twisted State Of Mind: five sweaty teens with the heaviness of Pantera, the aggression of Killswitch, the melody of Maiden and

the sheer cheese of Leppard, and the potential ability (once they hone their skills, anyway) to one day match all of them. Sure, in reality, they were playing a small tent to about thirty breakfasting prog dads- but in the mind of their bare-chested singer, they were addressing a sold-out Wembley Arena, radio-mikes intact and fists punching massed choruses in horned unison. Not only does their exuberance they bode well for the future, but it’s great that these days, youngsters can think that big that early. Moreover, they can all play (even to the point of instrument-swapping, extended soloing and a fourman drum pyramid). Then, suddenly, without warning, the climax is upon us- yes, demons and demonesses, it’s time for Atomic Rooster. Last year, when Peter French and Steve Bolton (the healthiest two out of only four survivors from any classic incarnation of the band) first unveiled their reformed lineup, it was very much perceived by fans, critics and promoters alike as a “dummy run”: they even ended up playing on the ‘tribute band day’, giving many a purist naysayer a laugh, but by the time they’d finished, they’d won over so many doubters they were instantly invited back to headline the final night of this year’s Prog Stage. And fuck me, what a headliner they make. OK, they’re not perfect: they have yet another new keyboardist in the seat once occupied by the late great Vincent Crane, and as it’s only his second gig with them, more than a couple of time signatures and intros are audibly fluffed, yet they overcome it all with sheer charisma (French really is the living definition of a ‘classic rock’ frontman, just like in Leaf Hound only with a sparklier jacket) several scorching riffs and squalling solos (of which Boltz is an underrated master) and the rolling, tumbling rhythms of a young drummer who’s easily as good as the young Carl Palmer was during his tenure. And, most of all, with those songs. You really can’t argue with a set that includes ‘Death Walks Behind You’, ‘Decision Indecision’, ‘The Devil’s Answer’, ‘Head In The Sky’, ‘Breakthrough’ and ‘Tomorrow Night’- even though it would have been good if they’d rehearsed a “proper” encore rather than having to play the latter twice. “Thank you Vincent”, says Boltz with prayer-fingers inverted to the ground in acknowledgement of his deceased mentor’s eternal pact with his Dark Lord, while French responds to the crowd’s riotous approval with the more prosaic “the cheque’s in the post”. Either way, you can’t top it: sure, we wander over to the acoustic stage afterwards for the last twenty or so minutes of Odin Dragonfly’s sublime harmonic folk, but as far as most of us are concerned, the main event has already been and gone. Post-show, reality’s finally kicking in- bugger me, is it really over for another twelve months? Sadly, it very nearly is- although there’s still some more moonlit chilling to be savoured. A mild Panatella, a bottle of ale and some Panic Room on the stereo: aaah, this is the life, or at least it is until the people that have taken it upon themselves to get up at stupid o’clock the next morning take umbrage at our mild-mannered musical soiree and tell us to “sod off to bloody bed”. The difference is, I don’t mind doing so for them- at least they’re not driving round in uniforms.

And besides, for every grumpy cat, a dozen more cool ones proliferate in their wake. Come the morning, nobody attempts to hassle, roust or yank us offsite (I should hope not- Double Entendre Ed): though water supplies may be running extremely low by now, gorgeous hot showers are still provided, bogs are still serviceable enough for usage (OK, you wouldn’t want to sit in there all day, but compared to major festivals they’re like the Hilton) and certain patrons are even kind enough to not lend, but donate you their shampoo, gel and arse paper!!! Compared to ‘mainstream’ rock audiences, we may only be a “few”- but what a contented, happy few we are. Nonetheless, a slight tinge of melancholy can’t be ignored: for another year, our extended family is going its separate ways. This place that has symbolised “home” for nearly a whole week is no longer ours, although I’m willing to wager our friend Mr Bayford, who actually does live here, will be glad of the peace and quiet. I know I must sound repetitive, but this really is a unique event: aside from Cropredy, I can think of no other yearly festival with such a sense of community, and in an age where social media trains us to hate each other more by day, that’s quite an achievement. Sure, it’s not faultless- the lack of mobile signal is potentially worrying, the reluctance of anyone in either neighbouring town to provide a shuttle bus service (like the one New Day audiences can take betwixt Faversham and Mount Ephraim Gardens) is galling, there are still far too many cover bands on the bill at the expense of decent originals acts (er, THE SOBERNAUTS next year, Mr Roberts!!!) and yes, those “security” gents could do with a doughboy round the mooey each to teach them some manners. But overall, the positives still far outweigh any negatives- and as any good promoter knows, a drawback is merely a learning curve in disguise. Nevertheless, Dave Roberts, even with the benevolence of millionaire music lovers like Adrian Bayford in his armoury, still needs all the support he can muster: he’s the one, don’t forget, that has to stand before a board of stuffed shirts every year and justify this festival’s continued existence. So next year, if an easy-going four days in the company of friendly people and fascinating bands sounds like your bag, grab some tickets and do both him and yourself a favour. Sure, if you’re holding extra folding, I’d also recommend checking out the likes of Lynton, New Day, Red Rooster, Bearded Theory and Whitchurch- but for a self-contained, standalone event where prog is unashamedly king, the blues still sits at its high court and Metal and folk joust merrily within, Cambridge is very much the place to be. And no, the donning of sandals and/or flip-flops is (thankfully) not compulsory: however, the casting off of all outside cares is. To paraphrase a gone-but-never-forgotten genius from a nearby locale: “we stood in a field where barley grows”. See you next year, licence permitting.

Guide To Oktoberfest T

his annual beer-soaked festival attracts over six million visitors a year and has now run for an impressive 184 times. Although there are many copycat versions across the world, Munich is home to the original festival. What began as an inclusive event for locals and royalty, became a free-for-all. In recent times, the festival began to see more recognisable faces heading to the city to wet their whistle. Director Roman Polanski, the poet Allen Ginsberg and of course Arnold Schwarzenegger were all captured with a glistening stein in hand in the â&#x20AC;&#x2122;70s, sparking a trend amongst holiday goers.

fter visiting myself, I found that the festival was a much bigger monster than I first thought. The Bavarian world was quite unlike my London home and I was often misguided by many rosy-cheeked comedians. By the time I had worked it all out, I had lost much valuable drinking time. So in order for you not to meet the same ill fate as mine, here is The Carouserâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s survival guide to the largest beer festival in the world.

The Beer

The Tents

All the beer is from one of the six local Munich brewers; Löwenbräu, Augustina, Hacker Pschorr, Höfbrau, Paulaner and Spaten. All of these traditional brewers were founded before the 17th century and have a long history with the festival. All the beers on offer range from 5-6% abv. So, if you’re not a fan of lager, this may not be the place for you. Each beer comes in a frothy phallic stein and costs roughly 10 Euros for one litre. Prost! Fashion

There are 14 beer tents in total and all completely free to enter. These tents are not the typical tents you might see at a festival but big strong structures and some come with balconies. Some like the Winzerer Fähndl have a beer garden. Most of the tables in the tents seem to be taken very quickly which proves challenging to grab a beer (it’s all table service). Fortunately, there is an option to book ahead to avoid this from happening. Schottenhamel

Wearing a lederhosen or dirndl is essential to the Oktoberfest experience. This has been the custom for centuries and seems to be the norm in Munich where there are many Bavarian clothes shops. Where a woman places a bow on her dirndl is also important. On the left means she is single, on the right means she isn’t and in the middle means she is a virgin. Good luck with that one…

Oktoberfest’s oldest beer tent turned 150 this year. Even though Schottenhamel is one of the oldest, it is also one of the loudest and is commonly known as the “rowdy” tent on the weekends.

Opening Oktoberfest festivities begin with a parade on the 16th September. The beer drinking continues every day after until the 3rd October. The gates are open at 10 am (9 am on weekends) till 10.30pm. The weekends are usually the busiest time for tourists while the locals play it safe on a weekday. See full times here.

The Pschorr-Bräurosl tent is ideal for music lovers. Many music bands and yodelers belt out their favourite Bavarian hits. In the ’70s, the local gay community decided to organise “Gay Days” at Oktoberfest which is still currently being run from this tent. The days land on the first Sunday of the festival and is open to the LGBT community.

The History The first Oktoberfest began in 1810 and was held to honour a royal wedding. For a whole five days, citizens were invited to party with plenty of food and drink and a little bit of horse racing. Because they had such a good time, they decided to hold one every year. The dates have been shifted due to it being sunnier in September. Oktoberfest has only been cancelled a small number of times, mainly due to war. But otherwise, nothing will stop the biggest piss up in history.

LETTERS TO THE CAROUSER Sometimes, being a Carouser is hard. We drink, do and fuck whatever we want. Naturally, someone has to have a problem with that...and decides to tell us. And because we do what the fuck we want, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve decided to publish the messages of the offended. Read it and weep ladies and gentleman.

Prententious piece of crap magazine. Try so hard to be edgey and fails HARD - TillyTwo via TheCarouser.com Was it the way we dress or was it the way we snubbed you at the Christmas party that made us pretentious? And anyway TillyTwo sounds like a name given to someone trying to be a 1940s gangster. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re just too edgey for us.

You’re just so wrong dude... -Anonymous Via TheCarouser.com I know, but it feels so right.

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