'Fowl Play' A Feature By David Evans (Rockness Feature)
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Written by David Evans
Draw up a list of legal addictions and it’s a fair bet that at some time or another I’ve caved in to the lure of at least two, and in the unlikely event of you including something to do with vinyl records, I could chalk up a hat trick.
And yet, when I say that foot tapping to The Felice Brothers is my idea of physical exertion, you might be surprised to learn that I’m not one of those couch-potato telly addicts.
That doesn’t mean I never watch TV: as well as all the music shows, I was a big fan of things like NYPD Blue and The Sopranos, and nowadays I try not to miss The Good Wife if only because I dream of having an agent like Eli Gold.
But maybe it’s because I get bored so easily that I tend to remember the adverts more than the programmes … yes, I’ll admit that the sight of Charlize Theron in her birthday suit is pretty unforgettable even if your boredom threshold hovers around rock bottom and you can’t stand the smell of Dior J’Adore; but in the main, it’s the comedy ads that stick in my mind.
And I’m not alone. Going back as far as the 80’s, the results of a consumer survey showed that the advertisements for Hamlet cigars were more popular than 60% of TV comedy shows. There were thirty-seven in total, and although there was no set scenario, the concept of a man in an embarrassing or no-way-out situation finding solace in a puff or two on a panatela was the common thread.
With so many gems to choose from, it’s not easy to single out a favourite, but if only because it dovetails nicely with the gist of this article, I’m going to plump for the fancy dress party.
In the opening scene, a man in a chicken suit arrives at one of those posh terrace houses in Mayfair or Belgravia. Now this isn’t just any old chicken suit. This head-to-toe beauty would have made Jim Henson proud: yellow and orange plumage, red legs and oversized feet, and a headdress outlandish enough to turn Big Bird green … and judging by the look on the partygoer’s face, he doesn’t half know it; he even pauses in the oak-panelled hall and preens himself in front of the gilt-framed mirror before making his entrance.
And what an entrance it is. Not content with a quick flap or two of his wings and perhaps a cock-a-doodle-doo, he bursts through the door and starts jigging about like Tweety Pie in the first throes of puberty. Only when he brings his funky chicken skit to a close does he realise that the other two-dozen or so bemused-looking guests are all decked out in their black-tie and evening-gown finery. To the strains of Air on a G String, he lights up a Hamlet.
Now I’m not suggesting this was the pick of the bunch, but the production bore the hallmarks of a big-budget movie, and at a time when fancy-dress parties were all the rage, its popularity could be measured by the sheer number of show-offy types who blatantly ignored the party dress code and turned up as a chicken.
And when it came to costumes, there was no shortage of ideas. I’ve seen everything from a custom-made outfit costing an arm and a leg to a patched-up pantomime version with a threadbare arse that actually made it look quite like the real thing … and as for that bright yellow shell suit with a red balaclava and a rubber glove sewn on top, you had to be a thick-skinned sort with a bit of a screw loose to go prancing round in that … or drunk as a sailor on shore leave.
But needless to say, the fad was the victim of overkill: I’ll admit that I’m exaggerating a tad, but the element of surprise is lost when your Tarts and Vicars party is overrun with more roosters than reverends and the local Swinging Sixties night looks more like the set of Chicken Run 2.
So what has all this got to do with music, you might ask? Well, at the mention of Air on a G String, no doubt a few rap fans were thinking of Sweetbox who cashed in on Bach’s genius with their 1998 hit, Everything’s Gonna Be Alright. And perhaps you pop historians were expecting me to join the wagging tongues in suggesting that A Whiter Shade Of Pale owed more to old John boy’s classic than the writers cared to acknowledge. But strangely enough, I got thinking about dancing chickens and costume cock-ups when I was checking on some of the UK’s more established festivals.
It didn’t start out like that. In fact, I’ve no more interest in getting trampled underfoot by mud-covered wellingtons than I have in paying good money to see U2; I just happened to pick up on an e-mail with a juicy-sounding link to California’s own Coachella festival: “The Ultimate Sensory Experience” they called it. Well, I’m not so sure about that, but there’s no denying the line-up was tempting even for an old stager like me who has been gagging on a bellyful of festivals for the last decade … and with tickets sold out within a week, there looked to be some mileage in comparing this rock 'n' roll smorgasbord with the best of British.
For obvious reasons, Glastonbury was top of my list but when I heard that Paolo Nutini was headlining at RockNess, I decided to check-out who else was due to strut their stuff on the shores of Loch Ness.
Now there’s a fair chance that some of Stereoboard’s more longstanding regulars might remember a July 2010 article by Rob Sleigh … for the benefit of those who missed it, let me explain that Rob is not only a fine writer, but unlike me who has had this dread of surging crowds ever since Russ Conway visited our school and I got caught up in the crush, he has served his time in the moshpit, and is no stranger to the thrill of crowd-surfing.
Now if I was brave enough to do that kind of thing, you wouldn’t hear the last of it; but instead of boasting about his derring-do, Rob took a pop at the organisers, accusing them of fast losing sight of the festival ethos: throttling the fun with an ever-lengthening string of restrictions.
Now of course there needs to be some control when 70,000 plus partygoers strive to escape the humdrum of every day life; but once I’d trawled through the RockNess regulations, I was inclined to think that Rob had hit the nail on the head.
It was as if the organisers had taken advice from every health and safety zealot north of Hadrian’s Wall and then asked their grandmothers if there was anything they wanted to add. And judging by the pedantic repetition, it was as if one of the old biddies was left with the job of writing it all out … and if anyone feeds me the ‘its all worth it if one life is saved’ mantra, you’ll hear me screaming no matter where you are. This fun-suckers’ favourite denies the untold lives that are lost because a featherbed upbringing has rendered a whole generation incapable of dealing with danger – I had my first lesson when I went moaning to the teacher after I’d been caught in that crush. She said it was all my fault. I should have got out of the way instead of standing there and pulling funny faces at Russ Conway. Can’t argue with that.
Anyway, enough of this soapboxing. In fairness, give or take the bully-boy repetition and the odd grammatical faux pas (no smoking will be permitted in enclosed public areas …?) the RockNess regulations and/or restrictions appear to be in line with all the other major events … with one glaring exception: Now it’s not for me to dump the blame on one or all of the grannies, but who else would have insisted on the inclusion of a dress code. Yep, that’s right; a dress code at a rock music festival.
OK, it goes on to target a specific group, but does “no tracksuits or ned attire” make the organisers look any less ridiculous? Oh, sorry. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the Scottish vernacular, neds are a brutish feral subculture common to the streets of Glasgow.
There is some debate about the name, but whether it’s derived from non-educated delinquent or ne’er-do-well concerns me not a jot. Suffice to say the uniform usually features white tracksuit bottoms and a Burberry cap, and if the men – and women – aren’t getting juiced up to the gills on Buckfast or rot-gut cider, it can only mean they’re asleep. And if your life has been made a misery by the same kind of low-life, you might well applaud the RockNess course of action. All of which was probably going through Geoff Ellis’ mind when he tried to get in on the act. Obviously, as the organiser of the rival T in the Park festival, where the Arctic Monkeys and Foo Fighters top the bill, he has every right to an opinion; but while he was lapping up his moment in the limelight, and banging on about barring all neds from his own gig, the sneaky buggers over at RockNess were quietly removing all trace of the ban on tracksuits and ned attire … as well as the egg on their faces.
And now, as Mr Ellis is left to face the wrath of the ne’er-do-wells alone (doesn’t sound quite right, does it?), to say nothing of the do-gooders who are accusing him of social profiling, I’m as annoyed with the RockNess organisers as he is. By way of explanation, let me say that whilst I deplore anti-social behaviour, I have a sneaking regard for the way that neds or chavs or whatever you choose to call them, never seem to miss a trick.
Going back as far as 1990, when Glasgow was designated European City of Culture, a Scottish friend of mine assured me that JAK’s famous cartoon depicting a down-and-out pestering some posh chap with the line: ‘Hey Jimmy, can you spare me a tenner so’s I can get myself a wee drop of Chateau Mouton Rothschild ’61,’ was not far off the mark. And so, knowing that animal cunning is second nature and deception hard-wired into their DNA, I had planned on writing something about a whole fleeto (that’s ned-speak for a gang) of these street-wise wastrels outwitting the RockNess bigwigs … I’d even penned a couple of paragraphs describing how they made a mockery of the dress code by turning up dressed as chickens – not a Burberry cap or tracksuit in sight.
And then what happens? The bloody rug is pulled from under my feet, that’s what.
Ah well, looking on the bright side: if I do decide to pay RockNess a visit, at least there’s nothing to stop me wearing my bright yellow shell suit.
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