After about twelve pints of Guinness it’s often difficult to remember each one individually, and all that you’re left with on the following day, is a lingering sense of satisfaction and well-being, coupled with random flash backs, which provide only an incomplete and even inchoate, narrative of the previous twenty four hours. The Latitude Festival left me with much of that same feeling. (Southwold, Suffolk, 14-16 July 2006).

Over 100 bands and solo artists on 4 stages over 3 days; over 50 poets spread over at least 36 hours of performance; 18 hours of mainly top-class comedy often from household names like Rob Newman; wall-to-wall cabaret, literary, film and theatrical presentations from noon to midnight and beyond. Where does one start?

Highlights? Well leaving aside the burlesque shows in the cabaret arena (old habits die hard), and at the risk of doing a complete injustice to dozens of class acts, the top poetic contributions fell between the aspiring young turks of the Aisle 16/Urbanian/FICTION collectives, any of whom would grace a contemporary performance with wit and vigour, and the established old hands who held the audience spellbound without saying anything. In the latter camp I speak of course of the ilk of John Cooper Clark, Patti Smith, Lemn Sissay, and Saul Williams.

In and around the former camp, respect must be paid to Luke Wright who organised the whole damned extravaganza, and who deserves an entry in the Guinness Book of Records for his MCing feats alone. I was particularly pleased to catch Birmingham’s Polar Bear, Brixton’s El Crisis, Edinburgh’s Jenny Lindsay, and Manchester’s Ben Mellor, but I could cite another dozen. Astride the old and the new were a few unclassifiable and richly eccentric contributions from Rachel Pantechnicon, A.F. Harrold, and Write out Loud favourites Thick Richard, who killed several Bungles, helped many Cannonball Dwarves escape, and found time to open a school for ugly girls.

But to return to the old guard, rapper Saul Williams came highly commended and T.W. dragged me off on Friday evening to see his hip hop stage set. He got a good crowd bopping with loads of drum’n’bass (that’s enough of the music crit. Ed. (particularly when you’re out of your depth)). But his true magic shone through less than two hours later when he was rubbing shoulders with the punters in the poetry tent before doing an electric, and yet socially sensitive set to the capacity crowd.

John Cooper Clarke entered the arena at midnight on Saturday, having just erected his tent in the dark, and charmed, I did say “charmed”, the large and somewhat intoxicated crowd for an hour with a few poems, but a good leavening of humour, reminiscences and observations. “I told them not to clone Dolly the Sheep, have you seen them, they all look the bloody same now”. (Actually this joke may have misfired had he realised that the sheep in Henham Park, had been dyed in various hues of red, blue, green and yellow, thus rendering his observation less comic).

As for the iconic Patti Smith, she teamed up with long-time band member, collaborator and producer Lenny Kaye, to give a riveting and touching performance of great quality and integrity, on Saturday night, before appearing bright-eyed in the poetry tent on Sunday lunch-time to share poems, reminiscences and a few well-chosen words for President Bush, with the masses. Our eyes met for a moment. All was well with the world. Then she spat on the floor and turned away. How we suffer for our art! However Tony did leave Patti and Lenny with copies of the last Citizen 32
“Sexuality” issue, to read on the plane home.

Well I could go on but you’re probably pissed off with all this hagiography. It was good, very good. I saw the Zutons and Regina Spektor, a definite plus for my credibility with younger members of my family. I saw Matthew Duff of Thick Richard hijack Howard Mark’s talk in the Literary Arena, with a spontaneous performance of “Why they shouldn’t legalise pot”. I saw John Robb, promoting his new history of Punk, describe the whole event as not being a proper festival, because it was so civilised. I saw Tony Walsh force an extremely tired Sunday tea-time audience, to come alive and believe in the Rock and Roll Revolution, before going on to be runner-up in the Festival Slam. (My own modest contribution, was to come a very creditable joint-last, alongside a bearded man with a cardboard box on his head. I think I was too centre-field, or they just misinterpreted my motives in choosing The Poetry Saloon”, as a tribute to the festival.)

So many thanks to Tony Walsh for inviting me as his guest. Greetings to James Knight, of Lancaster (formerly Manchester) who we teamed up with, and to Bob, Matt, Natasha and their families for the good company. And apologies for the obvious omissions, inaccuracies and inadequacies of this belated review.

Dave Morgan