Alright then. The summer is done. Leaves curl and brown on the trees, hoods are pulled up over cold ears, and Bestival has happened. I travelled down to the Isle of Wight mashup for a night only, bustled on the train by Londoners wearing patterned wellies, applying makeup and talking outfits: Bestival is not a crusty-gathering.
At Bestival, I found myself rapping solo at a bemused 5pm audience, who were scattered on the ground like floor-cushions, wondering why Dizraeli had been booked to perform at the Comedy Tent. Dizraeli wondered the same, but continued anyway, psyching myself for the real reason I came: an 8pm slot on the main stage, proclaiming Engurland over Beardyman’s beatboxing. When that event came, I was fully madcapped in a pink bear hat, a silver space-cape (£3 emergency blanket) streaming behind me. I gathered my nervous bollocks and exploded onto the stage in front of an insane ocean of Bestivalled humans, waving its 30000 arms like a sea anemone. There was a girl on someone’s shoulders who looked exactly like my ex-girlfriend Lauren. I pranced like a tit, grabbed the mic –knocking Beardyman’s monitor over- and delivered Engurland at full intensity, throwing out big yelpings of Bacardi Breezer-sick to 30000 ears. Nah, not so many- anyone trying to listen was straining to hear, gesturing at me that the sound was pitifully low. There’s nothing more frustrating than giving out your entire self onstage, and it being inaudible to the crowd. It’s like those nightmares where you scream but nothing comes out. Beardyman boxed, I yelped, but barely a soul heard. Fuck it, thought I, it’s a shambles. I showed my arse to the crowd (had to leave them with something amplified) and bounced away backstage.
Big ups to Beardyman for giving me a feature in your set. All praise the soundman for scuppering my small glory. I nursed my frustration in the form of a cider, then bucked up and tumbled full throttle into the festival, to dance to repetitive dance music that became strangely beautiful among old friends and fire-towers. A personal barrier was clambered on the way, and I left bewildered in the sunshine next morning, to eat fish and chips on the beach and ride the ferry back to the mainland. And so, the summer was done.
Into the next chapter- I write with paint on my forearms and dust on my shorts, in the midst of turning an old house into a home. The house has been eaten by moths and dry rot for years, and it’s been a journey making it liveable, room by room with Laura and her sister, tearing down and putting up until we can cook ourselves a meal in the kitchen we conceived. I’m in Brixton, with ninety different nationalities on my street and more commUnity than anywhere I’ve lived before. I’ve hardly seen a shred of the Cold Hard City I imagined London to be: instead, people greet each other in the corner shops, and know each other’s names in the post office, and have the Usual in the chippy. London’s wicked.
I’ve been shooting down to Brighton still, though, to move the album forward, and sheet, it’s come a long way. It’s sounding beautiful. Only a couple of tweaks now, and it’ll be done. Me and Mr Simmonds should have the masters in our mittens by the end of the week, touch wood. It’s on course to be released on the 12th of October, ready for the tour at the end of the month.
To all those waiting for the Bomb Tesco video to appear, sorry. Mr Felix Harrison worked wonders with the footage we managed to shoot on our supermarket-crawl in Edinburgh, but we needed more, so the two of us prannied around at the Brixton Tesco for a few hours on Friday, me in the bear hat, him pushing the trolley I rode in. Felix is working the new footage in as I write, and I’m crossing fingers that it’ll be wrapped up at the end of the week too, so we can release it onto YouTube by next Monday, like a greased piglet. Nice!
Big up all of yourselves in your searchings.
Dizraeli.
Tags: Album, Bomb Tesco