Disappear Here do Camden Crawl
Words by Celia-Jane Ukwenya
Walking out of Chalk Farm tube station, there was definitely something dizzying in the air. Was it the pending excitement of the unknown, or the early onset of sunstroke? I thought I knew what to expect. In my mind, Camden Crawl was a wall of bodies - drunk indie revelers, hammered guys in skinny jeans and check shirts ogling girls, Peaches and Kate wannabes gawking back, essentially beautiful clones. I guess I was imagining a sort of Notting Hill carnival of north-west London - less Red Stripe and rice and peas, more crawling from pub to pub meeting new best friends along the way and downing Gaymer’s cider as if your life depended on it. Losing those friends, losing your marbles and then losing the will to live! My expectations were half met but also surpassed. I’m a Camden Crawl virgin no longer. My cherry has been well and truly popped. Here is my diary:
The plan was to meet up with a friend at two. I arrived at the suggested rendezvous, with a spring in my step only to receive a “will be late text”. Not very rock and roll thus far, then. Forty five minutes later, we were off. Kila was an organized veteran of the Crawl, now in her third year running. I was in good safe hands.
The line up has changed over the last few years. Normally, she explained, the live music was spread over twelve hours. This year the main music line up was only from 6pm-11pm. For some reason the first two hours were spent aimlessly walking from Chalk Farm to Mornington Crescent and then back again. On realizing what we had done, we clicked our heels and dashed to the canal for Island Life at the Crawl, celebrating 50 years of Island Records. This was VV Brown’s label, and was bound to be good. I daydreamed of the wind in my hair, sun on my skin, midges in the summer air. Perfect. After searching high and low we finally found the pick up point. We were offered performances from The King Blues, Bombay Bicycle Club and VV herself. Advertised in our trusty Crawl guide as “Party Barge”, the sight of a floating village hall reminiscent of a dreary end of term disco was hilarious and exciting considering our newly intoxicated state. We were going to rock this party.
We clambered on, and no sooner had we acquired booze than dark words started to spread like wild fire. Toilets are out of order! Outrage! As soon as that was said, both our bladders predictably shrunk to the size of a peanut. We were off that barge faster than you could say Bombay Bicycle Club. Really not a great start. The race to find a toilet began and ended with Lloyd’s bar and me getting asked for ID. With a curious mix of delirium, desperation and happiness with my youthful looks, a quick in-out and we were ready to resume business as usual.
Kila had heard about a wall of confessions at the Lock Tavern, which seemed a highly comical thought. Upon arriving, and expecting something huge, we were met by a corner table in the back of a pub with bits of paper with scribbled down confessions: “Lila is on her period”, “ I am a cunt”. It was juvenile, but I loved it! Here we met Shera (as in sister to He-man, Princess of power). “I hate all Americans, awesome”, she confessed. Turns out she and her friends were Yanks! New BFF! Realising Little Boots (the only reason our new buddies were at Camden Crawl) had started, we galloped to the Roundhouse venue. Inside, shameless flashing of the pass got us ten meters in the air and about fifty meters away from the stage. The newbie popster belted out tune after tune. Although a static performance, I was bopping my head and shaking my ass (in my seat) to hit after hit.
Maccabees were next. Kila came over all excited. The plan was to head to the front of the stage as soon as Little Boots was over and get in the thick of it. Twenty minutes and another toilet break later we were at the front and met Holly and Erin, our next Crawl-friends. Two bright eyed and bushy tailed 18 year old girls, one half of the duo was an unconditional Maccabees obsessive. She had ants in her pants and was shaking with excitement like some Michael Jackson fanatic. I did wonder if she would explode into a fit of tears and excitement. Luckily she held it in, but she did show us her large tattoo dedicated to the Maccabees! Sigh!
The music started, sunny pop tunes (perfect for the sunny weather), but the others in the crowd thought otherwise, treating it like riot music. I was pounded like the ass of a buxom beauty during a drug-fuelled orgy. I don’t know what else I expected. Possibly clapping and kumbaya. It was fantastic, despite being pushed and shoved from pillar to post, while everyone around me shouted and chanted to the songs. It was at this point that drummer fetish of mine raised its lovely head. I have a thing for drummers, I think it’s the constant cum-face they have when they are concentrating on keeping the rhythm and trashing that beat. I heart Sam Doyle. During the set, Holly was in a state of pure ecstasy, loving every moment of being there but poor little Erin had been shoved all over the show. I took pity on her and swapped positions. She was at least a foot shorter than I was and I didn’t want that urban legend of “a death at every festival” to be on my conscience. After the show, as we make our way out, I looe Kila and am left with my young festival friends. They soon find some 18 year old boys and I am now the 23 year old granny third wheel. Not cool.
Kila found, we chance it to VV Brown, knowingly 15 minutes late. Turns out the guest queue jump pass means nothing. We don’t even get to hear a single note from the lovely Ms Brown. Nada. Zilch! Annoyed but not fazed we head over to the Golden Silvers gig. Through the cooing of Gylim Gold through “Queen of the 21st Century”, I spy the sexy drummer Alexis Nunez. With his energetic and enthused drumming and the bounce of his curly mane. Hypnotized by his beauty, I felt like I knew every word to every song. I love their poppy enthusiasm and old fashioned, harmonic head-boppy tunes.
On the terrace after the gig, having a cheeky fag and trying to recover the pieces of myself that had been lost throughout the day. We run across some guys who work on a gay mag. Ed, Adriano and Loz are funny, entertaining and cute. Numbers exchanged, we move on to our final gig of the day, Marina and the Diamonds. This was a recommendation from a friend of mine who is an absolute music buff. And I was not disappointed. It was a smaller venue to the others we had seen and Marina’ s energy was 30 times the size of the room and utterly contagious. Barely standing still at all and shaking her tush all over the stage, she was dressed in a gold sequined number reminiscent of a golden Wonder Woman. She plays catchy songs with such a perfect voice. From “She’s Not A Robot”, to a Gwen Stefani cover of “What You Waiting For”, she certainly was a “Super Hot Female”. The gig finished to fantastic applause from the audience but I was exhausted.
Looking over to my wrist I had an aftershow party to go to, yet the sunstroke had kicking in. As I walked away from the Marina gig and towards public transport, in my mind I was in two minds - afterparty or head east and homewards? The sight of Nicky from Big Brother propped up against a fruit sellers stall at a newsagent shouting obscenities at her friends and passers-by was the decision breaker. I wonder if the guest pass could queue jump me home?
Posted Wed, April 29, 2009