Bestival 2004

United Kingdom | by Ross Purdie | 15 September 2004

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Note to organisers: 'sunny' is always a dangerous thing to sell an English festival on... 

... If it rains!

Unlike its bigger, non-related rock equivalent, the Nokia Isle Of Wight Festival, Bestival is small. Very small. That shouldn't be a problem, small can be beautiful, and if you've got great acts (like here, Fatboy Slim warming up for Basement Jaxx) and a good vibe then it shouldn't matter. But when it looks deserted, then you've got a problem. Searching around, it's often difficult to believe the site is anywhere near full, especially on Sunday afternoon when a decent but damp-weathered set by reggae revivalists Ori-Jah-Nal is watched by no more than 50 people. And the first thing Sia says, when she joins Zero 7's headline performance is, "Thanks so much for sticking around." It's just as well people have done because the band are the highest paid act of the weekend.

Security is another concern. Friday is like Fort Knox as police swarm the entrance to the site. Bags are ripped apart, searched, repacked, only for the same process to be repeated minutes later at the camping site. Sniffer dogs ensure several drug-carrying visitors find themselves putting up their hands rather than their tents before they're led away, totally bewildered, probably to spend the rest of their days locked up in one of the Napoleonic sea forts surrounding the island.

Suddenly, Isle Of Wight darlings The Bees' decision to name their latest album 'Free The Bees' makes perfect sense. You'd think at least playing in front of a home crowd would be a liberating experience but a nervous Friday headline set leaves their wind-blown audience twitchy and isolated. Recent hits 'Wash In The Rain' and 'Horsemen' provide glimmers of warmth but even the usually danceable anthem 'Minha Menina' comes over sluggishly damp.

Perhaps they're just too chilled out, having been lavished by Lee 'Scratch' Perry's sun-kissed, loved-up dub beforehand. Dressed in his customary shiny hat and psychedelic shell-suit, the revered Rastafarian looks like Goldie Lookin' Chain have run out of ideas and been forced down Welsh mines to fund their soap-bar smoke-ups. Backed by Mad Professor on mixing desk, Perry rolls back the years and shows he can still hold a crowd in the palm of his hand. He loves us more than Natasha Beddingfield could ever say, especially "the gays", who he offers "one love", claiming defensively "I am not a gay hater", before transcending into even more rambling nonsense: "I am Hurricane Ivan. I am Shazam. I am the sun." It's what we paid good money to see.

Arguably more sugarcane than hurricane, it's nothing like the kind of tropical storm Dub Pistols whip up, who after some initial yank-wanking hip-hop move into a more welcome industrial beat breaks soundclash that rips through Robin Hill, chopped up by the cross-fade machete of main man Barry Ashworth, 'Cyclone' erupts more violently than an angry wasps nest, the chilled dub grooves of 'The Problem Is' providing the perfect antidote, before sampled AC/DC riffs and siren-drenched breakbeat monsters help car-chase the police the fuck away and set hungry Koreans on their soggy-nosed mutts.

Earlier performances, including the samba-silhouetted tequila soul of RSL and sure fire Alan Partridge faves Fake Bush (a tribute to the 80s-great Kate), also prove worthy highlights, as is another 80s pop icon, Buffalo Stancer Neneh Cherry, who spins a mix in the Big Top tent, where we flock to like kids in the Bisto Gravy advert. But what with all the hassle getting in (some ticket holders are left stranded and have to sleep in a nearby field after missing their ferry), an uncertain atmosphere, and a line-up almost too diverse, we look forward to a fresh start the next morning.