Now, my friends have been raving about Shambala for a good few years, but until now I have not been able to judge this most independent festivals for myself. So it was with an excited feeling that I set out with a group of friends, all squashed into a very small hatchback car. We arrived as the sun was setting on Friday night, and after a bit of confusion over gates of entry (I was officially press, they were artists) we parked up and decanted the gin and tonic – the first official public celebration of my friends’ engagement.
And as night rapidly fell we determined to get to The Beat gig at the mainstage, one of only a handful of bands that I could actually claim to know from a thoroughly obscure line-up.
The Beat were great and had the happy audience bopping up and down a treat. I don’t know them that well but recognised a few of their tunes, including Mirror in the Bathroom, and Stand Down Margaret- which became a call for both Brown and Bush to stand down, much cheered on by the liberal crowd. The adorably bouncy Ranking Junior, who thrilled us towards the end of the long set with a bit of his own style nu-school emceeing, now fronts the band. How sweet to operate a pop band as a family business, passing the lead vocals down from father to son! On the strength of his performance I might even forgive him a recent collaboration with the Ordinary Boys.
Once the main stage had closed down we wandered towards the woodland lakeside area, which featured a fantastically lit sculpture walk. As we crossed the decorative bridge into the woods an eerily lit green monster rose out of the lake to greet us, and as I stood transfixed I lost everyone else.
But that was okay, I wandered past some people hiding amongst the dense foliage on the shoreside in a drug addled way, and discovered some gingerbread bodies bound together on a log like voodoo dolls from a children’s story.
I caught up with my brethren at the Monkey Do nets, one of my posse’s many ventures, which were nestled in a cute little grove where trance music provided a back drop to the incessant wooosh of people inflating balloons to inhale. The nets were full to drooping point, and I was amused to hear people in an impromptu karaoke sing-off amongst the trees.
I then crossed the tiny site for a brief sojourn at the Nicky Blackmarket set in the fabulous geodesic dance dome, which was aggressively rammed with drum n bass heads, in stark contrast to the atmosphere of the festival as a whole.
Apparently there was even a bit of a fistycuffs later on, well well! It was then early to bed for me because I had earlier spotted that there was to be a whole day of dance lessons, and I wanted to be up and ready.
So there I was at 11am, ready to tackle my first ever belly dancing lesson with a bunch of other similarly perky ladies (and the odd brave gent) in the solar powered dance workshop dome. And I have to tell ya, I am hooked. We were taught by Sam of Horizon Hips – based in Hertfordshire – in the modernist style of tribal belly dance, which takes bits of belly dancing from all traditions and mixes them up, including the dress.
A further search on google reveals that tribal belly dancewear is characterized by bold and innovative dressing in bright jewel colours – sounds like my kind of thang! When performed by a troupe the dancers will take turns to lead isolated body moves which are quickly picked up and echoed by the other dancers. Isolated body moves are hard! They require intense concentration to get right, a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time, but also in time to the beat; not easy to get right.
After a short break it was time for a reggaeton class with Louise of Bristol Salsateca.
Now here was some booty shaking I could get into – that girl has a great ass! Reggaeton is a Latin American dance that has grown out of hip hop, salsa and a variety of booty shaking moves inbetween. Louise taught us some of these moves, including the chicken step and “open the door” move. I loved this class so much that I jumped over-enthusiastically onto my ankle and fell clattering to the floor as we embarked on a reggaeton danceoff. Watch my video to see how much fun was had.
Luckily this did not impede my movement for more than a few minutes, and I soon sprang back into action and was able to attend the Charleston class. This was held outside the tent as the crowd engorged with the waking masses, and we spread out into a big circle. On my wander to get a cup of tea I bumped into Cutashine violinist Christina and persuaded her to join me – I think she enjoyed the catch-your-breath poses in between more dynamic moves – here she is doing the “pout and stick your bum in the air” pose that is a personal favourite of mine.
You might think by now that I would be bored of dancing, but oh no, I’d just got started. And programme-less as ever I had no idea who might be playing on any of the stages so instead became determined to try every dance workshop available to me. During the break I visited my friend Bart over the way, who was there with his homemade digeridoos and green woodworking workshop. Every day he did a digeridoo workshop where those intrigued enough could learn how to play this most interesting of instruments.
Bart has just purchased some acres of woodland in Wales and I think I am going to angle for a visit. Some of the kids with our extended party also got really into making some baseball bats… I am not sure what they intended to do with these…
Next up was salsa. Now, I will confess that I have a bit of a mental block when it comes to salsa – I always relate this most sexual of dances to sleazy men. Why would that be? I’m not sure… but anyhow I thought I would give it a try. Now, I like the moves, I like to dance and wiggle around and generally shake my thang, but you know what? This was the only dance workshop which defeated me. Maybe this was because we had to change partners and then I lost my place in the circle when I went to get some water, or maybe it was because there were a few too many men trying to get a bit too up close and personal, surrounded by that invisible but tangible air of desperation. Yes, for me salsa was I have always envisaged it… not my favourite dance style by any means. I think I prefer to choose my partners rather than have them thrust onto me.
I finished my day of extreme dancing with the most extreme and tiring of all – krump, the dramatic dance style pioneered by the street gangs of LA.
Ebony skinned Nigel, who sounded like a true Brummie through and through, stripped to his waist and led us through a series of moves starting with a slide not unlike Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, and finishing with some extravagant floorwork not designed for me in my short dress. Luckily this meant that I got some great footage.
Late on Saturday afternoon the main fancy dress parade did a tour of the site, and on my trip back to our campsite I passed two small hyperactive girls who took one look at me and demanded to know, in no uncertain terms, why I wasn’t in fancy dress.
By golly they were cute, if precocious. And damn them, I hadn’t brought any fancy dress – but at this point I will fess up to another problem I have with festivals at the moment – there is just too much enforced fancy dress! It’s just not fun to dress up any more! It used to be special when only a few people did it, but all those whacky outfits make me want to dress in something thoroughly ordinary!
Having said that the standard of fancy dress at Shambala is definitely a cut above the rest – I suppose that what I really don’t like is the straight off the peg fancy dress outfits that anyone can buy nowadays – you don’t look whacky and imaginative my friend! You look like an uncreative prat! However, I did come across a number of truly inspired outfits at Shambala, all of which had clearly been individually fashioned with great care to detail. Here are some of the best ones I saw, and not yet another crappy plastic Indian headress manufactured in China amongst them.
I was also delighted to see the familiar Climate Caravan penguins were putting in yet another appearance in their stride restricting outfits – love them!
Following the parade break up (I wasn’t exactly sure where it went to, or who it was for, as it seemed to head into a dead end in the family camping area) I went in search of my friends dressed up in copper paint and stilts with High Rise Rubber, a performance group that fellow Cutashine caller Vic has been bringing out at festivals for many a year.
I must confess that even they lost some of their grandeur amidst the festival wide fancy dress party, but still managed to do their customary freak-the-punters-out with gooey blue dripping gobs trick. Trying to escape their copper paws is always particularly difficult when you are a mate in civvy clothes but I think I managed okay.
Come evening time it was time for Cutashine to hit the stage, so all and sundry popped a bit of red gingham on and headed for the Lakeside stage, where my band rocked up a storm with Vic at the helm, freshly rid of her copper stage makeup.
My favourite participants were the girls who had fashioned beds to sleep in upright – I mean, what kind of mastermind comes up with that idea? I told you the fancy dress was a cut above the usual dross. They danced every dance with verve, and never once got out of bed!
Afterwards I raced over to catch the last of Kid Carpet’s set – since all his kid’s toys were stolen a few years ago he seems to have grown up a bit and his sound has evolved too – more dancey and fun than what I remember. We had a good ol’ bop before heading backstage to catch up with him and his missus, an old friend of ours who is now preggers with a Baby Carpet.
Then we all hung for a while in a shish tent before I snuck off to bed again – my friends are notorious caners and I just can’t do it anymore, and anyway, I had my sights set once again on joining some early morning dance classes….
On Sunday I did my faves, belly dancing and reggaeton, all over again, and I have to say, get me to some dance lessons quick! I am so down with that shit! I am definitely going to look up some classes in my area once I get back from India.
With plans to leave mid afternoon I then did a quick round of the site to check out what else was going on – and discovered willow basket-weaving workshops, raku pottery firing, permaculture talks, how to inoculate a log with mushroom spores (a shame I couldn’t do this one – I really fancy doing this at home) a packed make-your-own jewelery class, and perhaps best of all, a man in a spangly top carving an intricate wooden owl sculpture!
I managed to persuade a bearded man in a distressed wedding dress to fill my bottle with some of his homemade nettle beer, which was absolutely yummy, and from thence I went to pack my bag to leave.
So did Shambala live up to my mates’ hype? Yes – it’s a festival to inspire even the most jaded festival goer.
And I was mightly impressed with the way that it has remained resolutely independent, with no corporate sponsorship whatsoever, a fact that you only realise once you note its absence. What it lacks in terms of a well known line-up it more than makes up for with in spirit and workshops, with a bit of something for everyone to take part in.
It even had the best compost loos I have yet to encounter, the lovely thunderboxes, which were an absolute joy to use. Bring on next year!
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