hahahahaha. They will actually kill me for that if they see it. But that’s unlikely as Jonathan, Grasshopper and Jeff are far too busy promoting their excellent new album Snowflake Midnight and its sister release Strange Attractor. We hooked up with them, sadly in the downstairs room of a hotel and not in the back of their tour bus yomping across the wastes of upstate New York, but you can’t have it all. Or in my case, anything. Suffice to say we were in garrulous spirits, which resulted in us all failing to conform to the perception that the Rev are miserable, glum, intense musicians and instead resulting in a rather strange but highly amusing conversation taking in a world petting zoo tour, the contractual obligations of their album artwork bunny rabbit, and, er, Jonathan’s lack of glumness. Dammit guys - why d’you have to be so funny and so talented? I feel small.

Keep your eyes peeled for the interview in the next episode of Flyposter. Not a dry seat in the house……

Regular readers will be only too familiar with my shortening patience for the rash of poorly organised, brand rich, experience short festivals, so after the Lovebox / Latitude weekend I went through last weekend, I was somewhat nervy about hitting the secret garden festival in cambridge this weekend. I had actually attended before, and was astonished by just how mashed everyone was. Watching a stage crew member trying to load a bass drum into the wheel of a ford fiesta has been my ‘most mashed roadie ever’ story for a few years now, and one I hoped to top. Within 10 minutes of arriving on site, I had!

The guest list co ordinator ( I say this in the loosest possible sense of the word) had the shakes worse than Amy Winehouse after a meth binge, which we (most of the press corps attending) all guessed was the reason he couldn’t find any of us on the palm pilot he was juddering in his clammy paw. No matter, one of the upsides of this being such a charmingly scruffy festival was that the wrong pass rarely meant you couldn’t get to where you wanted to go. And go we did, in search of tents, stalls, welly chucking, cream teas, theatre, science camp, comedy, morris dancing (google it americans), sock wrestling, mud slinging, tractor tyre rolling and a few bands chucked in for good measure.

Suffice to say Grace Jones was the highlight of the weekend for many, although her smacky hi fashcamp persona and music isn’t really for me, I was certainly in the minority. It quickly became clear that this was not a festival for major labels to foist their bands upon, yet there were still some highlights. The wonderful Micachu gave, for my money, the set of the weekend which will be going in to the next show. We also grabbed some time with the up and coming Man Like Me ahead of his set promoting his spanking new single Carny before heading up to the Silent Disco (yes, it’s silent. You hear the music through headphones you are issued, and my top tip for fun is - grab some headphones then dance to a different beat to everyone else. They get very, very confused…) and finally turning in to our beach hut to sleep, which at the time seemed like a great idea, but come 7am with 27 degreee heat mercilessly beating down, seemed less so…

All in all though, an excellent alternative festival wit a high mashed up randomness rate and low score for current bands. But we soon came to realise, most of the kids had come for the giant pirate ship and cider stalls, not the breakout set from the Shortwave Set. We live and learn to fight another day.

Gill and Lydia journey down to the Isle of Wight Festival, to give a little insight into the resurrected legendary festival of 1969, ‘70 and ‘71. We bump into The Hoosiers and the Joel from JK and Joel, the son of a Sex Pistol and a few unique punters onsite… Hark, we got a little boozed up listening to the Kaiser Chiefs and N.E.R.D. and the rather fabulous Wombats, who we hear will be doing some studio time with Sir Paul Mccartney…  

Well, we made it down and back in one piece, which judging by the nick of Ian Brown as we left the VIP area, is a feat unattainable by other sons and daughters of Manchester. What did we see whilst there? Well, for a kick off the one thing we hardly saw any of was any bleedin’ taxis. I know it’s not the most Keef thing in the world to moan about, but in the name of Drew if you’re gonna put a festival on, put some bloody transport on too. Minor, slightly uncool whines aside, IoW wasn’t half bad. Apart from the fact that there is an increasing number of folk who, like me, are slightly grossed out by Iggy, who still don’t get the fuss about The Zutons and who could go the rest of their born days without hearing another spew of spittle soaked mockney bile from Lydon and his deeply un Sexy Pistols. Yeah, apart from THAT, the festival wasn’t half bad. Now it may have been the liberal jugs of Pimms available on site, but we found ourselves actually enjoying a NERD set, with Pharrell managing to inject some humour and charisma into his tiny unsmiling frame, and at least four recognisable from the original songs making their way over the heads of the arena. Oddly, The Wombats also managed to reach the increasingly rowdy fans (I blame the free drink pavilions that looked over the arena crowd) whilst as usual The Kooks succeeded in taking an open and happy crowd and sending them all off to the burger stands during their set. One thing - if you’re the headline act who’s taken the lucre for an appearance, and justified it in some convoluted inversion of your original manifesto, surely you would at least repay your loyal fans by spending some of the fee on a few lights and a bit of a show? Given your vocal performance and staged bile no longer cut the mustard, a few strobes and bit of dry ice wouldn’t break the bank would it? So why did Lydon and co ask us to crown an otherwise great days’ music with lukewarm delivery and 8 60 watt bulbs framing the stage?…something to dwell on as you wait on your bus home….

If I never see another gig again, I reckon I could struggle on…Well, barring Morrissey announcing that The Smiths are to reform for a special one off gig in my back garden, I don’t think I need ever go to another stadium gig again. In possibly the only time you’ll ever catch me cheering anything in Arsenal football club’s ground, I was to be found on Saturday night screeching No Retreat baby, No Surrender at a man old enough to be my father. And for once I wasn’t the only one. As he croaked and rasped his way through I’m On Fire a small lump caught in my throat and didn’t shift til about 5 hours later, by which point I was sweating and gurning on the dancefloor of an east end dive club, but that’s another post…..

well, it’s been a hell of a week since the shoreditch house party, more of which will be blogged, but first i wanted to flag up that the episode featuring all the interviews we did at the btpodshow launch party is now up. It gives a fairly accurate depiction of the night…I say fairly accurate, as a lot of what went on had to be deleted on pain of death from half the slebs…suffice to say Steve Furst, Charlie Brookes, Sandi Thom, Mathew Horne, Sam Sparrow, Tara Palmer Tompkinson, Gail Porter, and indeed our very own Lydia all behaved like teenagers in an alcopop theme park. Who knew vomit copuld come out that colour….Myself and comedian Dave Gorman were, of course, a model of sobriety. So much so that OK! magazine seemed to think I was a sleb….snigger…..coming up - where in god’s name have i been for a week?and some exciting news about hot new band The Dodo’s….. 

gill on the roof of shoreditch house chatting to actors Steve (Little Britain, Orange ads) Furst, and Charlie (Janine who killed Barry in Eastenders) Brooks.

The whole musical world seems to have the east end of london and its’ bands shoved down its neck at the moment. Luckily, the only thing we were shoving down our necks in London’s east end the other night was mediocre canapes and Sam Sparro’s tongue (we wish…well, not really, given I’m the wrong gender…ewww). Anyway, the point is Flyposter slithered its way in and proceeded to entrance / annoy in equal measure. Firstly we had the dubious pleasure of talking to stick in shorts Tara Palmer Tompkinson. Now we’re not ones to knock folk when they’re down, but really TPT….I’ve seen drunk kittens steadier on their feet than you in your YSL tributes. Next up we heard from the lovely Dave Gorman, who just gets it, you know? Anyway, as the cocktails progressed, things loosened up a bit and we found ourselves on the roof by the pool with the aptly named Gavin and Stacey star Matt Horne. All going swimmingly (i know, punny eh?) until pop stalker and clothes horse Alexa Chung takes to the decks. At what point did it become OK to say you’re a DJ if you can whack on a knowing Elastica album track then slide a fader across to ‘Now That’s What i Call Indie 78′…? I know we’re all sick of the Peaches Geldof’s of the world besmirching the noble art of a DJ, but a semi famous TV presenter whose main show is the execrable Vanity Lair (Lord of the Flies for vain people) taking to the decks? It’s beyond the realms of my understanding. Suffice to say for the hour she was on, most of the party decamped to the bowling alley and the roof……

There’s more to be told, including some nice gobbets from Orange ad star Steve Furst, professional baldie and nice lady Gail Porter, Sam Sparro, Olympic torch mugging victim Konnie Huq, the killer of Barry in Eastenders, Janine and most importantly, Lydia’s breasts…..