memories of a free festival

A couple of months ago, I went through a phase of listening to loads of RDF, which led me back into the depths of the record collection to those halcyon early 90s crusty days. (Bonus points if you got the Orbital gag there). I went so far as to compile a mix called “Wango Riley’s Travelling Stage Revisited”. Wango’s was a fixture of the free festival circuit, as much as Pete Loveday’s Russell comics or dodgy blokes trying to sell you dodgy things, an old truck with cabin and flatbed intact, but the sides cut away to leave a covered stage and backdrop. One of my favourite festival memories is watching Poisoned Electrick Head play there at a festy near Nottingham. The PEH live experience was in full effect - that same experience which, according to the band, had been known to cause spontaneous DNA restructuring in casual observers. This meant two manic frontmen wearing luminous road safety vests and robot dancing while the musicians all played in boilersuits and Geigeresque masks (it must have been baking in there). The sun was setting over the trees on site when a random spectator climbed on top of one of the buses parked near the stage and started mucking about with sticks and petrol. And then a huge plume of flame came racing from his mouth. I was stood there with a great band fizzing through my synapses, watching someone breathe fire against the dying of the day. You don’t get that at a Keane gig.
One of my other favourite bands of the era played at the same festival. AOS3 were a band from Sunderland I came across supporting RDF. They played a similiar brand of skanking dub, but with a much fiercer punk edge. A lot of the festy scene skulked about in a cider and weed addled haze, but AOS3, and especially John the singer, were a lot sharper than that. His lyrics referenced all kinds of esoteric stuff - they were the first place I heard about Buckminster Fuller or Adam Weisshaupt - and were soaked in a cynicism that was strangely positive and uplifting. A homegrown North Eastern Jello Biafra. Their debut album “God’s Secret Agent” is still a great listen today, although slightly marred by not including the incendiary cover of the AK47’s “Tottenham Three” that was a staple of the live sets. And, Jesus, they could make you dance. I never left a gig of theirs anything less than sweaty and knackered.