Yes, my epic Roskilde tale still drags on like an Olympic-sized traffic jam. Still, I’ve no doubt that future generations will come to revere this radtastic (industrial language) work in the same way as Viking Eddaic poetry or Homer’s Odyssey.
Though I admit this has to compete with other contemporary classics such as:
My tale resumes with me in the Odysseus role, awaiting safe passage home for me and my free T-shirts (the number of which had then grown to three!). It was a regular Friday morning, regular except for the fact I was in Denamrk, at a rock festival, and had used the term “urine-soaked” more in two days than in my previous 25 years.
It had also begun to rain. Luckily it wasn’t the kind of rain that plagued the infamous 2007 festival.
Accounts of that day vary, but I choose to believe that the Orange Stage became a floating barge that toured the campsites bringing sweet music to all the soggy people.
No, luckily this was just enough rain to blanket all the fantastic odours that come with festivals. Mercifully, it also abated halfway through the day.
Our group didn’t have to work until 7pm, so we spent our day enjoying volunteer-priced drinks and watching Roskilde-priced music acts with all the full fee-paying chumps. The pick of these acts was probably a fun set from US band, Gossip.
By the time our second shift came around, most of the initial bugs had been ironed out. We had working cash registers and everything! The shift passed mainly without incident. When I wasn’t schooling people on the taps I was being schooled on Scandinavian languages. Now my Danish is better than most (in that I know more than none at all), but I was reduced to listening intently for just two things. 1) the number of drinks they wanted, and 2) the type of drink they wanted. If they wanted two different things I was up the proverbial creek.
A friend and I did find the chance to take a well-timed break to see Jack White. With only a half-hour break (may have been 43 minutes) to take, we did extremely well to be there just in time to hear him play “My Doorbell” and, after a few other good songs, finish with “Seven Nation Army”. I find it a shame when fans are relieved to hear an act play their biggest hit. I’ve never pulled in to a Shell only to hear the attendant say “sorry we’re not selling fuel anymore because that’s what everyone would expect us to do, frankly we’re sick of it, but how about some firewood?”
Did I mention that our shift went until 4am? Who seems like the chump now? By the time we’d finished, had a beer and walked back it was almost full daylight.
By the time we awoke it was raining again, and again it stopped without causing too much trouble. It was to be a good day because we didn’t have to work until the following day. Sadly, we still missed the pun-tastic music of Cerebral Ballzy who played at midday, but come five o’clock we were sure not to miss The Roots. Having not been the right age to enjoy The Roots (in any form) in the mid-90s, I had not heard much of their work. But I approach festivals as a chance to see stuff you wouldn’t usually see, and I’m glad I did.
I’ve never seen such energetic work from a guy carrying a tuba. That’s commitment I say. When they started out he could’ve gone for a trumpet, trombone or an electric kazoo and no one would have thought less of him. But he said “no, I’ll take the heaviest, brass-iest instrument I can find and I’ll still run maniacally around the stage.” Fantastic fun for all involved.
Well, that’s it for yet another installment. If I keep this up it might even run longer than Peter Jackson’s King Kong. But at least it’ll be more entertaining.
Safe travels, thanks for your readingship. J
Boiled Blog Syndrome: Thoughts on travel 