Flaming Lips and Pulp, Alexandra Palace and Hyde Park, 1-3 July 2011

The weekend of 1 July 2011 was an epic adventure – on occasion of my mate's milestone birthday two of our favourite bands were playing the capital, Flaming Lips and Pulp. It seemed only fair to have an epic four day adventure celebrating. Writing below is from the time.

Thousands of stops seemingly on the Northern Line in the armpits of a stranger. Postcard London. Arrive in a cloud of Flaming t-shirts, amongst our own people. Race to get on to the official shuttle bus. Board. Alight. Alexandra Palace. Skyline of London glitters in front of us, mesmerising. Snake queues to enter. Huge palace of possibilities. Hot dog queue threatens existence. Giant red, flamed and framed. What food is that colour? Lager refreshes as we choose to miss Deerhoof. Commercialisation at every turn, get your photo taken to a banner of the album for a tenner. Doubt it. Crowds wait for the Flaming Lips. We turn out to be a diverse group, scars mark self harmers who have a high perchance for the Lips.

Fresh from the gig

Enter theatre after brushing past Richard Ayode, glorious times. Huge multi coloured balloons hand from the ceiling. Dinosaur Jr come out. Fronted by the white wizard woman, apply glasses, definitely a man. Sings Freak Scene. Crowd are buoyant. Anthem. For the young, sung by the old. Seen to much to try them.

It begins. Wayne Coyne in a fur trim coat. In this heat. Unbelievable. The man introduces the Lips’ concept of a good time by playing Soft Bulletin. Then disappears from stage. The stage lights up, a perfect arc to a giant screen. Colours of a rainbow pulse, red and white alternative then an eye appears. Giant bloodshot uneasy eye, blinking and pulsating. A door emerges from the iris. The Lips descend from the eye. Missing the front man. Giant space bubbles, he’s in a bubble. Going out over the crowd, held aloft by adoring arms. One, two, three, roll. Coyne is upside down. Or are we?

Return to stage where a woman plays the drums on a giant screen behind. It starts. Euphoria. Tens of bright balloons drift down, punched up by victorious arms. Cannons split out glitter. Streamed full. The Lips are playing the best album ever, their best album ever. Songs too personal for Coyne to sing, stumbles, fractures, poignancy of time and reflection. Survival. Where others have fallen. Giant laser show beings. What is this light? Love. All involved, band to fans, fans to band. Amazement. Better than the Beatles. Bigger than the music. Sadness in triumph. Album closes. The Lips are the band for people affected by most things. Momento mori. C’mon motherfuckers, show some love. Encore. Do You Realise? That death affects us all and life is a just a moment. I stood up and I said ‘yeah’. My hands are in the air. You realise, I realise, they realize. We all rejoice. Celebration. Human ritual as important as any other. To be with people. Sharing the music in a moment. Makes us real. We exist. Against the odds. To be here. Now.

Pulp, Wireless Festival.

Depart to the festival gates at 2.30pm. Queue for hours. No structure. Push for places. Sheep herd. Why so long? Bloody searches. Only blokes though, such is the draw. Men are destroyers, women don’t have the intention to kill. Clearly. Check the bottles for water by pouring it on their hand and lapping it. Foolhardy.

Arrive. Golden Draught cider. Sweetingly refreshing. Sit near main stage. Metronomy play. Their notable hit comes and goes. Wait some more. Commercialisation of festivals continues, Barclays advert plays. Huey Morgan, once pop punk idol, does the links between stages. Worringly bald. What happened man? Age. The Horrors emerge. Noisey guitar and post-Verve channelling. Doesn’t translate from record to stage. What happened to the guitarist’s hair? Lack of effort. Go off. Hives come on. How? One song released over 10 years ago still bouncing around. Filler. The Hives Are Law, You Are A Crime? Thank fuck. TV On the Radio swap on the main stage. Sonic. Lost again in translation. Play that song from years ago that’s on my minidisk somewhere.

Wonder around festival. See Foals. Amazing live band. Pop music dance bounds out. Sounds brilliant, play well. I dance for a bit. I know a place where I can go. Total life forever. Leave early to Pulp it up. Queue for toilets, men piss in an open urinal.  Man tries to flirt while peeing. Avoid eye contact on both fronts. Woman falls in front, head first into trough. Grim.

Head to blue and green flag, wait for you. Get into the stage. 20,000 gig goers. We wait with baited breath. We’re close. ‘Is this your idea of a good time?’. Indeed. Perfect weather, night closes around the park. We’re here. They’re here. Pulp headline.

Do you remember the first time rolls out from the stage to the crowd. All songs are played. Energetic now as two decades ago. Still would. Definitely. In a heartbeat. Disco 2000. Look at us know in 2011. Stalemate in Hyde Park. I spy. This is Hardcore. Sunrise. Dichotomy of speakers corner against the billionaire club. Hands up in the air, it’s a raid. Common People. Triumphant. Pogoing. Chorus. Singing every word throughout the gig. Brilliant. Live for moments stood watching the band in awe, singing along in harmony with other adoring strangers. Bliss.

Crowd shot.

Tramp home. Thousands snake en route. We cross London before reaching Knightsbridge, mass singing as we go. Run the streets. We emerge from every corner, gate and exit. Underground. Earls Court. Home. Perfect 72 hours.

Wake up. Pack bag. Keys handed in. Kings Cross with coffee. Chat the time away. Buy a notebook. 

Board train. Sit. Smile. Write.