It is 11.30am and I am wide awake. There is an iridescent sun beating on my skin, making my fashion choice of a leather jacket feel pretty foolish in retrospect. The sacrifices we make for fashion, eh. Much like last year, Brockwell Park is alive and buzzing with the coolest people in the world; Coachella influencers warped through the filtered lens of 6Music, cheap tinnies and endless nights at the Windmill. I’m in love. There’s only one band tonight who I am desperate to see, the rest are very much arbitrary, so I’m happy to let the wind and wonky guitars guide me along my journey.
The maps docked about the sights in LED screens don’t provide much information; each stage has a unique name, so just labelling them Stage 1, Stage 2 etc on the official map isn’t particularly helpful, especially when you’ve missed the first 10 minutes of opening band, The Itch. One of the best things about festivals is gaining that first vital exposure to artists you hadn’t even heard of before coming in. The very little I knew of The Itch led me to believe that they’d be some kind of folk band, drenched in intense lyrical journeying and ethereal harmonies. Now, where I got that idea from, I have no idea, but I don’t shrug at the alternative; dark grooves seduce and illuminate this afternoon crowd of people into simultaneous and spontaneous dancing. Think LCD Soundsystem if they had a goth phase.
The Itch
Next up, the riotous punk of Lambrini Girls draw a huge crowd. I would have loved this band when I was 15, the shouting, sloganeering and endless moshing, but something just doesn’t quite click nowadays. Maybe I’m facing the tragic monolith of aging, and three chord shouty punk songs full of rage and fury just don’t do it for me anymore. The band are unequivocally a force for good, and it is satisfying to yell with the crowd, telling TERFs to fuck off, but it leaves me wanting a little more.
On the second stage, Bodega charm the crowd with their infectious, groovy indie tunes. They owe a lot to the post-punk of the 70s, Television, Wire et al, but they add a unique spin onto it. I leave a little early, grabbing some chips along the way.
Lambrini Girls
Dry Cleaning are a band I have seen once before, supporting Sleaford Mods in Nottingham. I found them fascinating, a band layered in ambiguity and mystery, and was instantly hooked. Now in the blistering sunshine of Brockwell Park, coming from the high energy of Lambrini Girls and Bodega, Dry Cleaning land with a thud. Detractors of the band would most likely call them “dull”, and this set leaves me inclined to agree with them. It’s a testament to how, at a festival, the slot, stage and environment really do affect a band’s set, it’s paramount to your enjoyment. It’s that old “is the frame part of the painting” argument, but applied to sunny fields stinking of beer. Dry Cleaning are a band with an intimate sound that would have sounded much better on another stage, maybe as the dusk sets in; on the main stage, their hushed sprechgesang post-punk gets lost in the wind.
Faux Real
I need a boost. I need a lightning bolt of energy and chaos to lift me up, so I walk over to the second stage where Fat Dog will do just that. I saw this band at Reading last year, early in the afternoon performing to about 200 people, but those 200 people were utterly frenzied. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was to shake off the hangovers, but these canine weirdos cast a spell over the crowd that was hard to ignore. To say their cult has doubled since then is an understatement, it has increased exponentially. This crowd is equally hard to get into as it is to get out, sweat becomes airborne, drinks fly in the sky, all to the sound of the wonkiest of post-punk stylings led by a man in a stetson, a drummer with a dog mask & a bouncing, dancing pair of keyboard & sax players. Easily the highlight of the day so far, the set takes me back to when I was 17 and would fall in love with bands at festivals just as they’re breaking through. The eye of the needle, the storm, the threshold of magnitude. I even start moshing. Wild.
The Dare
A friend of mine with very good music taste really likes Eartheater, so I go and see Eartheater. The first 5 minutes at least. The tent is absolutely rammed and the hyperpop glitches are really getting into my head, so I leave. I then have a look at Charlotte Adigéry & Bolis Pupul on the main stage, who perform an eclectic set of disco tunes which fit perfectly with the evening sunshine. The set is impressive, particularly Adigéry’s vocal performances, but I still need something. I need a sit down. I remember that I’m not 17 anymore and can’t jump from band to band without adequate sustenance anymore, I can’t live off chips and Monster energy drinks.
I have a headache, my body hurts from the moshing, and the need for food outweighs my need for music. I’m getting old, and it sucks. I sit down with a pizza in a rare area adorned with shade, and I don’t stand up again for another hour. I miss Squid, although I can hear the beautiful chaos of ‘Narrator’ echo in the distance, but it’s alright, I tell myself, it’s all good. I’ve been charging my batteries for the main event.
Charlotte Adigéry & Bolis Pupul
Every single person I’ve spoken to who has seen Young Fathers say that they’re one of the best live bands you will ever see. One of the greatest of all time. They’re a band with a near-flawless discography and a reputation for spine-chilling, electrifying live shows, so naturally my excitement for their set at Wide Awake was at fever pitch. They come on stage, bounding on with aplomb like lightning, setting my pulse racing. I look around the crowd, and from where I’m standing, not everyone feels the same way. In fact, a good majority of them are loudly chatting, taking selfies and generally couldn’t give less of a shit about what’s happening on the stage.
They play ‘GET UP’ and no one cares. They deliver a rousing and emotional ‘Geronimo’, turning a camera onto the audience and no one really cares. It’s probably better down the front where the genuine fans are, but it begs the question, why go to a music festival if you’re not going for the music? Why pay all that money just to have a conversation, something you can have for free at home or in a pub, and not pay attention to one of the most unique and defining bands of our time play a festival which quite frankly they should be headlining? As I type this, I am aware I am not brushing off the “getting old” allegations. My 17 year old self would probably be down the barrier and not even care about the flanking conversations. At the ripe old age of 26, I have become an old codger yelling at a cloud. Is it me, or is it them? Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
Young Fathers
Truth be told, I could not give less of a shit about King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, tonight’s headliners. They’re a band who deliver quantity over quality, churning out 100 albums of Scooby-Doo chase music and Mighty Boosh soundtrack off-cuts every year only because they can, not because they should. Not My King.
My headliners tonight are shoegaze legends Slowdive, and the atmosphere is electric. Their music couldn’t sound better amongst a sunset, a park slowly adjourning to the dusk, and people swaying to the eclectic rhythms. Their is a gentle tipsiness in the air, through drink and the heavy sun of the day, so there is a looseness within the crowd that makes the set feel amazing. Everyone is here for the same reason, to enjoy this band and have fun doing so, it is glorious.
Slowdive
Of course, every headliner needs a good afterparty. That’s one of the golden rules of festivals, so the prospect of a Talking Heads tribute band is so exciting! Huge singalongs to stone cold indie classics beats whatever mindless psychedelic noodling is going on on the main stage. I am 26 years old and choosing to watch a tribute act over the main headliner. I really am getting old. Byrne’s Night, a collective of many musicians including people on today’s lineup, are due to hit the stage at 9.15pm, approximately 15 minutes after Slowdive finish. They aren’t really a band, they’re more of a collective, with a string section, countless synths and many guest players. In hindsight, incredibly optimistic to believe they’d be ready in a mere 15 minutes, so we wait an extra 20 for them to eventually get on stage.
One of our gang goes to see a bit of King Gizz to take a quick video, and begrudgingly says they’re really good. Could we have made a mistake? Was taking the pizz out of King Gizz and his Lizz Wizz a folly on my part, and would I have come away from their set with a changed mind? And then the musicians walk on, Ash Kenazi MCing in a big David Byrne suit, and launching into ‘Psycho Killer’. No, I’m good here.
This set is the definition of a party; Faux Real perform a fantastic ‘Girlfriend Is Better’, Lynks reinterpreting ‘Lazy’ in their own dance-pop style, and a gorgeous Fräulein rendition of ‘This Must Be The Place’, complete with lamp dancing. Naturally, the set overruns, with the sound cutting out during ‘Once in a Lifetime’. The crowd keep the party going, “same as it ever was” chants continue as every single performer gathers on stage for a euphoric bow. It’s a strange finish to the night, but an unforgettable one.
Byrne's Night: A Talking Heads Tribute
I leave Wide Awake 2024 with an acute sense of my own mortality. It’s been 11 years since the first festival I went to, and festivals have become more than the music in that time. It’s about the atmosphere, the weather, the conditions, the people you are with. Wide Awake this year felt a little bit hollow in some parts, but succeeded in many others. Last year felt much more complete, primarily due to its more diverse lineup, straying into alternative pop rather than baseball-cap psychedelic paste, so maybe a few lessons could be learnt from 2023 in making 2025 a truly iconic year for the festival. Regardless, Wide Awake is always a great day out, and one that always leaves me eager for more.
Photos: Melissa Darragh