The scene on the short train ride from Brighton to Shakedown Festival set the par for what was to come. Whilst I screamed in pain after spilling hot tea over my crotch, and trying to avoid getting wiped down by the elderly lady in front of me, I looked around to find fresh faced students already on the Strongbow and other substances. Despite Deadmaus’s claim he’s brought dance music a long way from its stereotypical drug culture – he’s not witnessed the girl longingly gazing at the green seat beside me. Still, despite it being fairly early I could do with a drink to level with these heathens.
The train stops at Falmer and I offer my thanks to the elderly pervert for trying to assist with my wet crotch. She replies ‘Men!’ – I offer an awkward smile and walk away from the deranged grandma with haste. Despite the sunshine pouring over Stanmer Park, the downpour of rain from the night before had left the ground caked in mud. Joining the canonical body of worm genocide on the ground was already a wealth of converse and Vans shoes – like a rat king hipster burial ground. My friend and I collected our passes and made our way to the bar to be greeted by bar staff who seemed perplexed at the concept of currency for product, as well as calculus. After explaining nursery school mathematics and feeling the need to have brought an abacus to the child eyed idiot in front of me; I also explain that I’m not an alcoholic for ordering two ciders, I just merely want to save time tutoring bar staff each time I want a drink. After finally agreeing that £10 minus £8 is £2 we vacated the bar to be greeted by two young boys seeking a lighter.
One of the wild eyed chaps asks me a question. I’m not wholly convinced he realises he’s left his bedroom. His eyes are looking through me and I’m not entirely sure who he’s talking to. It’s midday and he’s gurning at a level to rival a cannibal zombie. I inform him its shitty form to start so early and he responds with a mumble to the cloud behind my shoulder, unintelligible. I pat him on the back telling him to have a good one. He seems panicked by this gesture, then a grin takes over his mouth and he runs away with his friend to the Supercharged Arena darkness. I’m not sure they were real, yet I’d only had one cider.
Kick off
As the last cloud lifted and the sun poured over Stanmer Park, we made our way to the Main Stage. Competition winner Sammy G kicked off the festival with an eclectic mix of Major Lazer, UB40 and Tinie Tempah – which surprisingly worked – slapping the still half asleep revellers into sonic reverie, whilst ensuring their feet were moving consistently to avoid joining the mudded worms and converse graveyard. With the cider reaching my brain and bladder, I made my way to the toilets. Impressively, Shakedown overstocked on toilets and no pissing in a cup and/or fence was required. As I entered the urinals I was met by man who seemed to have his own beat going on, despite no music to be heard; as his head bounced to his own internal beat he asked me, “WANT SOME DRUGS?!” At this point it was too early to think about it and after remembering my wild eyed friend from earlier, I politely declined, “No thanks mate, I’ve just had a sandwich”. I’m quite pleased with myself; it’s the kind of acerbic wit I think to say hours after such converse. At this stage his arms are in the air and he’s bordering on doing the running man. He grins at me, “NICE ONE!” and with that, he runs out into the field.
I find my friend and we make our way to the Supercharged Arena. It’s slowly filling and as we reach the front I notice a man in a cow kigu dancing. This is unfortunately a familiar site at a festival, yet something has happened. He’s twisted his ankle yet can’t stop dancing, and I can’t stop staring. This is fascinating. The cow spends some time on the floor in agony whilst his friends continue to dance. And yet, he’s trying to get up. Much like a calf after birth learning to steady their feet and walk, this man is slowly getting to his feet and jumping on said twisted ankle. “You crazy bastard” I say, and though I salute his determination, if he were a calf he’d be shot for meat by now. It’s tempting.
X Factor rejects
We left the mangled calf in the arena and walked down to Hed Kandi’s VIP area in the hope of finding free beer. We didn’t. Some randomly placed sofas, toilets with golden taps and moisturiser and a few X Factor rejects were all to be found in this pit of despair; and despite the fact an elderly man was dancing in a manner that can only be described as ‘a broken Optimus Prime trying but unable to transform’ – we left to discover local band the Special Ks followed by Stooshe on the Main Stage. Walking out wearing swimsuits with jeans and shellsuits, as well as covering TLC’s Waterfalls – the 90’s was puked all over the Main Stage. I was then tapped on the shoulder by a pretty girl asking me to put her on my shoulders. This could go badly with me having the upper body strength of Bambi, though it had been a while since I had my head between a girls thighs’ so I obliged. I spin around to help her find her friends, in the process taking out at least four people with her legs and spraying the remaining survivors with mud. After putting the girl down and weeping over my broken neck, we were greeted by another girl who may have been related to mangled calf boy. She couldn’t stand up and felt we were good resting posts. We were informed by this crazed yet endearing girl that she’d had “too much mud”. One sympathises. We left her to lean against a man who’d been stuck in the mud/a drug coma for an hour and made our way back to the bar for another maths lesson.
Feeling as though we may not have given VIP enough of a chance, we headed back. As my friend headed over to the toilet with golden taps I eye up the hog roast van. The girl serving catches my eye and she knows she’s got me. I casually move my eye away, telling myself to be cool – but she knows I’m buying. The motions are already in progress, and I’ve a hog roast baguette in my hands before I have a chance to yell at myself over the price and hygiene levels. As I eat the final piece I notice the despair in my friends face as she walks over – as if I’ve eaten it in front of a starving African child with a hint of Geldof glare. Money is now running short due to the hog roast and cider diet. Zane Lowe is due to start his set and we now find ourselves in the only ATM queue with everyone at the front seemingly forgetting their pin numbers. Despite Shakedown being a small and intimate festival, an ATM dispensary of this size is fucking ridiculous and we abort. The queue for the Supercharged Arena looks equally depressing, so we blag our way through the back with our press passes much to the delight of those in the queue. But those muggles can suck the cold air. We’re in, and as we join the vertiginous mass of dance crowd clichés – clandestine gurners so in love with dance they’ll ironically fight anyone indifferent to it; Zane Lowe takes to the stage – his presence commanding and we march to his beat. Tearing through blues, dance and a reverie of genres, his canonical setlist including his own manual beats sets the par for any DJ for the rest of human history.
Darkness falls
Darkness covers Stanmer Park as Katy B and Professor Green sell boredom like its soap. Despite the sobering soullessness bringing on a wave of depression; like kamikaze ninjas, we make our way to the front of stage, pissing off only few. We’re greeted by a group with face paint on. I fight every urge to say something, but hold back as one of the guys offers me a cider. I accept it, despite the fact it looks like a Na ‘Vi from Avatar has cum over his face. Dizzee Rascal was up next. Now, no matter how you feel about the man, there’s no arguing the man can put on a show and as he stepped out on stage – his twisted grin warmed even the most stubborn of pickled hearts in the crowd. Tearing his way through ‘Boy in Da Corner’ to ‘Tongue n’ Cheek’; there was no fucking around – the raconteur played what the mob wanted, with volatile energy, immediacy and heathen chemistry – as well as taking time to swap hats with a girl in the crowd. I imagine they ‘met’ later. Closing the night with ‘Bonkers’ – lazers, smoke, fire and confetti explosions induced enough feet stopping to bring down what’s left of the the West Pier and end this rave apocalypse.
Final word
It was well, fun I guess. With this being only Shakedowns second year I’m not sure if they have an identity yet. Though with Brighton also staging The Great Escape, Playgroup, Norman Cook’s Big Beach Boutique and many others – Shakedown is an entertaining alternative. Though the line up is one that would please MTV viewers, it’s ‘Summer in October’ character is its endearing feature. It’s predominately Brightonian crowd offer an eccentric collective of lovable heathens, and if Shakedown survives the harsh festival climate currently killing off the big and small, this could be a festival note down the years.
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