They are friendlier, more organic, with full band and percussion. Basement Jaxx don’t ram their dance music home with pile-driving electronic force. At the start of their set the sound was sludgy but slowly grew better and they attacked tunes such as “Romeo” and “Bingo Bango”, eventually going ballistic with the Gary Numan-sampling noisiness of “Where’s Your Head At?” The stage was then invaded by a gorilla-costumed armada. The London producer-DJ duo presented a carnival of Afro-Latin-tinted dance music from across their seven albums, a stream of guest performers lathering the whole thing in showbiz colour and charisma, from the main two singers ( main picture), one of whom supported herself on a crutch throughout, to a male MC, a lithe female dancer, and others besides. The highlight of the night, however, and indeed the whole festival, were headliners Basement Jaxx ( crowd reaction, pictured above right). Happily, no crowd can resist “Go!”, their catchiest tune, and toddlers on shoulders were punching the air by its final chorus. The daytime did not suit their space travel-themed multimedia show, which is far better in a more confined, darkened venue. When we wandered onsite, Public Service Broadcasting were playing. Forgotten Fields had, however, also forgotten to provide any films for the cinema tent (wherefore Wall-E, Indiana Jones and Aliens?) but everything else seemed present, notably the Horizons, Gypsy and House Party marquees. Apart from a rubble-strewn gravel road running through the middle, it was easy on the eye, especially the children’s area, a tree-dotted grassland of mini-tightropes, diablo and hula-hooping. The site took the form of a long strip with venues, bars, fairground rides and shops running down it, and the Main Stage at one end. It was very 21 st Century, a 4,000-capacity commercial event aimed at modern families. But let’s not kid ourselves Forgotten Fields is a hippy entity. The old countercultural ones, decades ago, had almost none, surviving on an anarchistic community spirit. It’s a weird line, organization at festivals. Mostly, everyone was busy getting stuck into wine, cider, and beer, sat on cool boxes and fold-up chairs, chatting eagerly as barbecues sizzled, their children cavorting about, shrieking in the setting sun. There were other moans too, but who wants to read a whingeing list of campsite fails? Better to focus on the positive. And about the main festival arena – where all the food stalls were – not yet being open as evening approached. Grumbles were also heard about hours-long queues to an overloaded campervan field. They had intended to pitch up in the advertised family camping but it soon appeared that designation of specific areas had descended into a shambles. We eventually found our pack of friends – six adults and three children. Someone had placed a big, and somewhat angry-looking, cardboard sign on their drive shouting, “THIS IS NOT THE ENTRANCE TO THE FESTIVAL!” We were among those circulating the back roads of rural Sussex but eventually, after phoning someone on-site, my partner-in-crime and I found the only two festival signs either of us saw all day, which were at the site entrance. The first thing that Forgotten Fields forgot was almost any signage to their festival, thus, on Friday afternoon, the A26 and A267, on either side of Eridge Park, were full of cars trawling up and down seeking any hint of an entrance. Perhaps Kendal Calling taking place only a week before stretched Forgotten Fields’ organization beyond its creators’ abilities… All, however, had complaints of one sort or another.
It came out approximately head-to-head between 2/5 and 3/5, with the caveat that most had enjoyed themselves due to excellent weather and good company. On Sunday, before leaving the site, I took a verbal poll of tens of attendees, asking them to score the festival on the usual five star review scale.
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