The Middle Class Goes to Paradise: Latitude Festival, Suffolk, July 16th-19th

Unlike some reviewers I’m not going to indulge in the any tortuous hand-wringing over the question of whether Latitude is too middle class or not. It is middle class because the arts are middle class. I know, I know, and I’ll get round to writing something about it in due course. But before I do: wordiness. I’ve noticed that my reviews aren’t exactly concise. Or is it that this format makes them look longer? Either way I thought I’d try and be a bit more breviloquent for this one. So. This is Latitude in a series of more or less chronological one adjective one word a couple of word reviews.

La Reve Human Music Box: pretentious. Ben Goldacre: star. Doves: turgid. Robin Ince: Giant Crabs. Robyn Hitchcock: good banter, lame songs. Johnny Candon: should be famous, won’t be. Orwell – A Celebration: Badly scheduled, well adapted. Pappy’s Fun Club: naked. Andrew Motion: undervalued, amiable. Josie Long: Kurt Vonnegut T-Shirt. Jeremy Hardy: confused, angry. Nick Cohen: pessimistic, angry. Mark Thomas: inventive, angry. Mark Steel: angry, angry. Gary Le Strange: crack and jewels. Catastrophic Sex Music: catastrophic; possible victim of scheduling; more likely victim of bad writing and hubris. Nick Harkaway: must read. Tree of Lost Things: sweet. Pet Shop Boys: miming. Jon Ronson: neuroses and demented bravery. Magazine: proficient but kind of pointless. Grace Jones: stellar. Instigate Debate: Ben Bradshaw looked like he had no idea where he was. Laura Dockrill: ubiquitous. Wasps: bastards. Compost toilets: hell. Nick Cave: Nick Cave.

Does it sound like I had a good time? No? Well, I did. Next time I go I’ll try and venture outside the literary tent for a bit, unless my fear of wasps or my new found enchantment with songs about crabs as big as beach donkeys prevents me from doing so.


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