Live: Parklife 2015

image: Parklife 
 

Last weekend, myself and a 23-man-strong team of lunatics descended on Manchester for a weekend of absolute carnage. Convoying across the Pennines with cars full of liquor, bum bags and baby wipes, we were prepared to mount the beast that is Parklife Weekender Festival.

We began our day with a spot of Julio Bashmore, but while we all had a proper good jig about, we were really just filling time before the main stage acts began to pull their punches. Wu Tang Clan were set to perform at 6.30pm, and half of our group consisted of some of the heaviest hip hop heads about, so we were determined to throw up our W’s in good sport. Despite the weather taking a turn for the miserable, it dampened our coats not our spirits as we, along with around 30,000 others, embraced the mantra, “Wu Tang Clan ain’t nothin’ to fuck wit’”.

We stuck around main stage to catch the set I was most excited for – Annie Mac. Annie is my girl, and last year she was the highlight of my weekend. I could barely contain myself as giant, luminous palm trees were dragged on stage, and her larger than life decks were set up before me. Even the sun was poking his head out to catch the pint-sized DJ do her thang. I have to say, though, Mac left me disappointed. Usually, she is a proper live-head, jumping in front of her decks and bopping along to her tunes having a right good time. This year, she looked bored, and her set consisted of filler rather than killer. It didn’t help that the sound quality at the main stage was bleedin’ poor. We were stood around four rows back from the front, and could hold a conversation with ease – not summat you want from a dance music festival, really.

All my mates in a field
 

We trudged over to a packed out tent to catch the end of Mark Ronson’s set, me mates determined to cheer me up after my devastating Annie blow. Ronson was electric, playing banger after banger against a backdrop of black and white photos from back-in-the-day USA. The guy bleeds cool, and he proceeded to drop a bomber of a tune, light a fag, check his texts and spin the decks all in one swift movement. The crowd were practically bobbing themselves. He finished his set with Amy Winehouse’s cover of The Zutons' Valerie, dedicating his set to his lost friend. We lapped it up, and as Ronson skilfully dipped out the track, the tent boomed as the voices of thousands of over-excited Parklifers sang the tune back to him. Amy would have been chuffed, Mark declared, and my Saturday Highlight Award went swiftly to him.

We popped out for a breath of fresh air before things took a turn for the dark and dirty as the legend himself, Fatboy Slim took to the stage. By this time, we had lost our little minds, and became the old-school nineties ravers we were all meant to be. Elbows were thrown and we skanked harder than is humanly possible to classics like Praise You and I See You Baby.

We left about half an hour before the festival closed its doors for the night, and it were a bloody good job. 75,000 people were about to descend on a rather residential area of Manchester with only a limited number of trams home. This is definitely a festival where experience pays off, and I can imagine first-timers finding themselves stuck in the park until the early hours, just trying to get out.

The next morning we weren’t quite so lively; the lads had done their backs in proving their manhood by lifting others onto their shoulders, and the girls were militantly scrubbing yesterday’s glitter off of worn-out faces. Still, we had another day ahead of us, and after applying fresh face-gems and yanking on our mucky wellies, we were off for another day of debauchery.

Ain't no messin' with our Grace...

We livened ourselves up with a fair few bevvies and some on-tram chants, craftily started by my other half, and by the time we reached the park gates we were raring to go again. The sun was beaming, so we joined the crowds gathering around main stage to see the fabulous Grace Jones. Out she came, dressed in nothing but a tight corset that stopped just below her boobies and a hell of a lot of body paint. She put on an absolute corker of a show, and although the majority of the crowd were too young to even pretend to know any of her tunes, they were rocking along with the bare-breasted lady in no time. Jungle were next to hit the stage, and their fresh, electro-soul beats took over the park in a rush. I reckon I’ve found a new favourite live band in them lot. Any remnants of the morning’s hangover were brushed swiftly aside, and Sunday began with a bang.

We went for a rapid sit down on the hill above the The Temple stage, surveying the site with awe as ravers began to fill the field, waiting for the one and only David Rodigan to take the stage. There’s no rest for the wicked, and we’re the wickedest of the lot, so we rose from our hilltop perch and fought our way to the middle of the crowd. As owd Dave took to the stage, he launched into a speech dedicated to the memory of Robert Hart, who lost his life due to an act of mindless violence at last year’s festival. Approximately thirty to forty thousand ravers turned up to watch Rodigan – the majority of them high on much more than just life – and every single one of them closed their gurning jaws for a minutes silence, raised peace signs in the air, and paid their respects to Hart. It was proper magic.

My mates were well into Nas, who was next up on the line-up. For me, he had too much chat and not enough tuneage, so myself and a likeminded mate went to scour out the talent in one of the dance tents. We had no idea who was playing, but made friends with a couple of off-their-rocker ravers and had a proper good jig before the end of the night climax that came in the form of DJ EZ. This was where our group was split, with half favouring the DJ and the other half venturing to check out Rudimental. While I was disappointed to have missed the likes of Dizzee Rascal taking the stage with the band, there was no way in the world I was going to miss the force of nature that EZ was bound to bring. He didn’t disappoint, and we were throwing shapes like no-ones business until it was time to leave the grounds for the final time.

The only negative thing I’ve gotta say, is that the presence of Parklife approved poppers left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Entrants were penalized and ejected from the park for attempting to bring in their own ‘legal highs’, but other attendees were more than welcome to buy them from official vendors onsite. A bit hypocritical. So long as they’re making money, eh…

Overall, I had what was probably the best weekend of my life, with the best people in my life. Despite the queues and scary yet individually beneficial lack of security at the main entrances, it was everything the young, wild and reckless amongst us could possibly have wanted. 

Parklife took place at Heaton Park, Manchester on 6 & 7 June 2015.

Parklife website