The Annual Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail (aka Ro’s gloriously self indulgent prog fest)

My love for prog rock and psychedelic folk is not something that often gets indulged outside of private spaces like home, headphones, or car. I do appreciate that prog especially is not to everyone’s taste; some of my friends even go so far as to express an active loathing for the genre, and so unless I’m in musically-likeminded company I don’t tend to subject others to this particular section of my record collection. In the past I've gotten away with sticking the odd proggy track into the midst of a more crowd-pleasing DJ set or party playlist (Hocus Pocus by Focus is a staple), and I do recall one Green Man festival when I danced the night away to some extremely esoteric tunes spun by Freakier Zone’s Professor Justin Spear, but it’s a rare thing to be able to jump up and down to this type of music in a public place and to be among people who enjoy it as much as I do. Last night I felt like a very lucky girl when I was allowed, nay encouraged, to play a whole evening’s worth of folky-proggy goodness at the Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail.

For those that don’t know, a Wassail is a pagan festival where mulled cider is drunk and apple trees are blessed in the hopes of a good crop from the next harvest. Although an ancient ritual, this particular event - held at Stone Cross Nurseries - is still in its infancy, having started up only last year. The first Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail in 2013 was a magical night, made extra sparkly by the timely snowfall that turned the torch lit procession to the newly planted orchard into a scene from Game of Thrones (minus the raping and pillaging). This year the weather conditions were entirely less frozen, but equally extreme. “Bring your wellies”, we were told.

As the punters started arriving in the early evening, I eased them in with some gentle (some might say accessible) folk, including First Aid Kit, Imagined Village and Iron & Wine. The mellowing effects of these soothing tunes were then spectacularly undone by the invigorating opening performance from the Pentacles, whose primal pagan drumming is about as far from the sunny Samba scene as you can imagine. They were followed by belly dancers Tribal Unity and the fabulously attired Steampunk Morris, until it was time for the procession.

Sadly there was no bonfire this year, but given that the field was one big puddle due to the relentless rainfall these past few weeks, this may well have been problematic anyway. Nonetheless, the excitable atmosphere swelled as we tramped like Vikings through a bog, fiery torches in hand. A little girl in front of me squeaked “I love all this muddy stuff” as she skipped through the mire, and I had to agree that it did lend a certain dramatic something to the occasion, albeit more Waterworld than Narnia.

At the orchard we sang songs, heard prayers to gods ancient and new, had a little dance in the mud, and shared apple cake and cider from last year’s harvest (although not from these saplings, which are too young to bear fruit). As the crowd began to disperse, I dashed on ahead to line up some rousing music to welcome them back inside, choosing Led Zeppelin’s 'Immigrant Song', followed by some Yes and Yellow Moon Band. People (including, but not only, me) were up and dancing. Noone was shouting ‘get this nonsense off'. I was relieved.

Next was the raffle – all for a good cause and with some fun prizes (Linda and I were disappointed not to win the Witch Weekend in Glastonbury; maybe we'll go anyway) – but a little bit of a mood-killer, just when we were getting into the swing. But Greg’s witty raffle repartee kept us merry, and then it was time for more drumming and dancing, but not before I’d snuck in a couple of tracks, including Tame Impala’s ‘Elephant’, to which the drummers rather brilliantly started tapping along.

This may have been around the time when I drank the 8% farmhouse cider that ruined me, since the rest of the night is something of a happy hazy blur. I do distinctly recall grinning like a loon at a seven or eight year old girl with rainbow face paint, who was moshing around with us to Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s ‘Hoedown’, and thinking what great musical taste she had for such a young thing. The headline act of the evening was a very entertaining goth-rock band from Totnes called ROxIRcle, who enabled my frenzied flailing (one could hardly call it dancing) to continue.

I knew I wanted the night to end with Focus (as every good night should, but rarely does), and I managed to sneak in playing ‘Syliva’ to the departing hordes before packing up my things and calling a cab for me and my cohorts. I cannot tell you what a joyful experience all of this was for me. I may never get to have such a wonderfully self-indulgent night of DJ-ing ever again, but I will always have the memory of this Wassail. Even the monster hangover was worth it.

If you've been reading this thinking "that selection of music sounds like my worst nightmare", you probably won't want to listen to this Spotify playlist I made of my DJ set. But otherwise, knock yourself out. And don't forget the cider.

I Am a Shooting Star: a Spaced Out Sci Fi Party

Ever since the Green Man Festival 2007 I've been trying to track down a song called 'I am an Astronaut', played in the dance tent there by Pete Fowler of Monsterism fame as the final track of his stormingly groovy DJ set (to which I can be seen dancing here).

All I could ever find, though, was a downbeat version by Snow Patrol which you'd never want to play at a party (unless you wanted people to leave). I managed to determine that the original was by Ricki Wilde (younger brother of Kim) and was originally recorded in the 70s - but never actually found anywhere to download or buy it.

When we decided to throw a space themed party for my birthday this year, I knew I had to include the song in my DJ set, and renewed my quest in earnest. With a little more online know-how and some purposeful determination, I eventually found it.

The 'Spaced Out' theme inspired some of the best costume efforts I've ever seen amongst my friends, and with the addition of a robot dancing competition, a superb Clangers cake (made by my talented sister), a screening of the legendary Turkish Star Wars and some out of this world live music from St Anthony's Fire, it truly was a night to remember.

Finally spinning the tune I've been dreaming about for the last two years, I watched affectionately from behind the decks as my drunken amigos stumbled around in a cloud of glitter, hugging each other in that end of the night "you're brilliant, no you're brilliant" way. I like birthdays.

In Which I Finally Get Frocked Up and Go Dancing

You wait five months for a big night out, then two come along at once... I may occasionally possibly have mentioned once or twice lately my frustrations about not having been out dancing since my birthday back in September. It was a sorry state of affairs, which I am relieved to report has now been rectified with a double whammy of social festivities.

Brighton Twestival, 12th Feb

On Thursday Ant and I joined the Brighton Twitterati for Brightwest at the Black Lion, part of the global Twestival fundraiser, which I've already written about for the C&M blog. It was a fun evening of putting real faces to avatars and shooting the breeze with like minded, passionate and interesting people. Unlike the majority of attendees - whose morning-after hangover Tweets provided much amusement - I stayed sober for the duration, which was just as well because Friday night brought an altogether more epic and energetic adventure...

Last Tuesday Society Ball, 13th Feb

One of London's many 'alternative' nightlife purveyors, The Last Tuesday Society has been putting on weird and wacky events since 2006. The latest (and reportedly final) event was an anti-Valentine's affair entitled 'Loss' which took place, appropriately, on Friday 13th. I was there with the lovely Angell, whose acquaintance I made almost exactly two years ago at another alternative night - from the currently dormant Lost Vagueness. After fuelling up with vintage rum and hearty pasta on board Angell's cosy houseboat, we made our way to Notting Hill, where a queue was building up outside the Tabernacle. Most had made a decent effort with their attire (the theme being 'Decaying Beauty'), but as always there were one or two conspicuously under dressed punters, who were frankly just begging to be mocked.

Inside, peacock feathers were being handed out in a half-hearted attempt to furnish those without costumes, but unfortunately there was no dressing up area like at Lost Vagueness, leaving the towny element at the mercy of our ongoing contempt. Embarking on the obligatory exploration of the venue, with which neither of us was familiar, we discovered an atmospheric central room with a stage and dancefloor, and a surrounding mezzanine - perfect for people-watching. The rest of the space was a warren of less theatrical flourescently-lit side rooms and corridors, where various activities such as onion chopping (to make you cry) and a life drawing class had been laid on. It was in such areas that our more colourful encounters occurred, though the dancefloor did afford some quite sociable dancing episodes.

The highlight of my night - apart from Angell's charming company of course - was a storytelling session in a tiny side room, for which we demanded that the annoyingly intrusive lights be switched off. Six or seven of us huddled in a broom cupboard in the dark were just able to make out the flowing ginger hair and emphatic expressions of our rakish raconteur, who treated us to a spellbinding Arthurian tale, told faultlessly from memory. The gloriously sonorous storyteller was Giles Abbott, a true stalwart luvvie (in the best possible way) if ever there was one.

Both the live bands we saw were good fun, particularly The Guillotines, whose Saxophonist I'm sure I recognised from Brighton. I particularly relished flagellating the singer (upon his request, I might add) with a large stuffed tiger which had been pulled from one of the many bundles of cuddly toys hanging from the ceiling. An 'avant-garde' (i.e. wanky) drag mime act died on its feet and spelled the beginning of the end when punters began to boo and throw things at the stage. It didn't help that the bar had run out of spirits by 1am (note to self: conceal hip flask in stockings in future), and people were getting increasingly tetchy about it. But despite these slight hiccups, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and we had an excellent night of random conversations and wanton mischief.

Back at the boat, Angell and I polished off the best part of a bottle of rum and stayed up chatting til sunrise. I can't remember the last time I did that, and it was especially magical to do so from inside a houseboat on the Thames, which provided a most stunningly dramatic view. The following day was spent watching the world go by on the river whilst listening to an eclectic selection of tunes and reminiscing about our exploits the night before. I finally dragged myself back to Brighton in the early evening, feeling far less wretched that I ought to have done considering, and with my dancefloor cravings firmly sated.

More photos from the Last Tuesday Society Ball at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Frocks, Freaks and Fabulous Friends

The last time I got dolled up to go dancing was probably for Born Bad vs Gypsy Hotel at Komedia back in July, which actually turned out to be a bit of a let down, so I was really looking forward to celebrating my birthday at The Magic Theatre at the weekend. I'd chosen this event specifically because it was in London, and I fancied a change from the usual Brighton party circuit. I discovered that it is quite difficult to persuade other people out of their seaside comfort zone though, so it turned out to be a small (but perfectly formed) gathering of a few game Brightonians and some London-based friends - all of whom looked fabulous in an eclectic assortment of costumes. I went for a Bugsy Malone-inspired vintage ensemble, including a dress purchased from eBay especially for the occasion, accessorised with bits and pieces from the dressing up trunk.

We knew as soon as we walked up to the Bloomsbury Ballroom that we were in for an interesting night - a motley assemblage of smokers loitering at the door gave a hint as to the type of punters we'd find inside: weird and wonderful, bold and theatrical, wantonly disturbing and sexually ambiguous - suddenly the outfits in which we had felt so self-conscious on the bus from Hackney appeared positively pedestrian in comparison. Inside we discovered an elegant Art Deco ballroom, perhaps a little too polished and corporate-feeling for this type of debauched event, but pleasantly light and airy, with plenty of places to perch. Oh, and the toilets were immaculate, which is always a bonus.

Photos from The Magic Theatre by Jaded Lady

People were friendly and talkative, and each of us found ourselves making new friends and coming back together with stories to tell. The music ranged from show-tunes to rock 'n roll to jazz standards, and when I wasn't dancing I was merrily singing along to everything from 'Bad Guys' to 'Mein Herr'. Entertainment was laid on in the form of a couple of (frankly baffling) cabaret acts and a live band - The Voodoo Trombone Quartet - who got everyone dancing with their infectious funky brass rhythms. The night went by in a flash of sequins and salacious gossip, and suddenly I was wafting about to Edith Piaf, saying appropriately theatrical goodbyes to friends old and new. I wish more of my Brighton cronies had been there to enjoy what turned out to be a super special night, and well worth the trek up to Town - but big love to those who did make the effort, and thank you all for giving me a birthday bash to remember.

More photos at the Magic Theatre Flickr page.

Pre Gig Burgers

The perfect pre-gig rocket fuel, from the Gourmet Burger Kitchen next door to Komedia, this was not actually a burger, but a slice of deep-fried goats' cheese layered with gushy griddled aubergine and tart sunblush tomatoes. The chips in the background (shared between the two of us) were cooked to perfection - golden and crispy on the outside, light and fluffy on the inside. As fast food chains go, this place is to MacDonalds what Pizza Express is to Pizza Hut - not exactly challenging cuisine, but comfortingly consistent. The Brighton branch is a great people-watching spot too, especially if you go on a night where something whacky is happening at Komedia, like last night's Born Bad vs Gypsy Hotel extravaganza.

The North Laine is teetering on the edge of night time café culture, which even in such busy thoroughfares as New Road we don't quite get right here in Brighton (perhaps beery leeriness is just part of British DNA). This particular Friday was better than most though, as an exotic blend of retro style icons, rockabilly vixens and the most preened quiffs on the south coast mingled before the Komedia soireé. Even in my slinky vintage-style halterneck (bought especially for the occasion), I felt comparatively under-dressed. How perversely fitting to be eating sophisticated burgers surrounded by people who have taken base Americana and turned it into a high art form. Well, what better way to observe the 4th of July than to gracefully hijack US culture and smugly improve upon it?

With thanks to Ant for his contribution to this post.

Vive La Différence!

Vive La Fip, Komedia, 23rd Feb 08

One of the things I love most about living in Brighton is the sheer volume and variety of activities on offer. You could, if you wanted, go out every weekend of the year and do something completely different - whether you're into live music, theatre, clubbing, eating, comedy, sport, drinking, or all of the above - there is no excuse for ever exclaiming "I'm bored!" in this town. As someone who feels largely indifferent towards conventional 'club' music, but does love to dance, I have particularly benefitted from the rise in alternative club nights in the last few years, especially since the relaxed licensing laws paved the way for non-traditional club venues to host such affairs. This means that I no longer have to brave the chav-infested seafront club strip in order to have a boogie on a Saturday night, and what's more, I get to dance to music that I would actually listen to at home. Many of these new club nights also give us vintage clothing lovers a chance to don our retro frocks without feeling out of place. Notable examples of such events include girly jive-fest Born Bad, cheesetastic We Luv Pop, oldie but goodie Dynamite Boogaloo, Brighton's answer to Lost Vagueness Boutique Theatre and sleazy electro disco It Came From the Sea, to name but a few. On Saturday, I took some friends along to Vive La Fip, one of several club nights now on offer at Brighton's premier arts centre Komedia.

A celebration of cult French radio station Fip, Vive La Fip is possibly the only place (other than my flat) where you could dance to ska, samba, disco, chanson, jazz, soul and rock in one evening. And it's not only the music that's eclectic - the elegantly clad punters range in age from 20-something to 50-something, happily intermingling on the dancefloor - united by a collective enthusiasm for the outstanding music. First heard in Brighton over ten years ago, many people presumed that they were picking up Fip's signal from across the channel, when in fact it was being illegally re-broadcast by a local resident, allegedly from somewhere in the Hanover area. The station's ever-growing army of listeners were left distraught when the pirate operation was finally discovered and thwarted by industry regulators Ofcom. But Fip lives on in Brighton - for those, like me, who listen via the internet - and once a month at Vive La Fip. Hosted in the intimate Studio Bar, with a comfortable balance of seating and dancefloor space, my only gripe about the night is the enforcement of plastic glasses, which seems ridiculous given the unusually refined and relaxed air of the proceedings. I do object to being made to drink from a plastic cup (especially when enjoying a rather fine pint of Dark Star ale) at my age, and it does diminish the otherwise sophisticated milieu somewhat. Let's hope that Komedia come to their senses and allow proper glassware in future, or I shall be tempted to bring my own tankard next time, I'm not joking!

Listen to Fip Online

Restoration & Recreation

My poor bicycle, I call her Hedwig, has been sat in the hallway looking a bit sad for the last six months, since we were both damaged in an accident that resulted in a broken jaw and smashed up teeth for me, and a blown tyre and a few scratches for her. I finally got round to taking her in to get fixed at the weekend, with a view to getting back on the saddle in the next few weeks. Now that the weather is improving and the evenings are getting lighter again, cycling to work is becoming a more enticing prospect, and I think I am about ready to tackle the psychological challenge. So I dropped Hedwig off at G-Whizz, a great little second-hand bike and repair shop down in Hove borders, which is also handily only a stone’s throw from my favourite café in Brighton & Hove, The Sanctuary. At first glance, the damage was apparently not too bad, but she will be given a good once-over, and I will be able to collect her next weekend. This was a small but significant step for me in getting over the whole ordeal, and now that plans are also afoot for a Hungarian dental trip, I’m starting to feel a lot more positive in general. A celebratory lunch at the aforementioned Sanctuary café was inevitable, as was a visit to Taj, the best ever food shop (in Brighton anyway), also just around the corner. The clement weather only served to reinforce this upbeat mood, and sunlight was streaming through the windows as I sipped my mango and passionfruit smoothie, and wolfed down a plate of delicious potato wedges with garlic mayonnaise.

An obliging Nikki, apparently mid-sentence, on the South Downs Way

A long overdue girlie night ensued on Saturday evening, with a trip to the Hanbury in Kemp Town for We ♥ Pop, the perfect cheesy night for one very excitable gay man and five willing fag-hags. We danced our little socks off to everything from Kylie to the Beatles, and enjoyed the laid back vibe of the refurbished venue (it was done up a while ago, but this was the first time I’d been since the change in ownership), complete with ironic wallpaper and an extremely well-stocked spirits bar. A remarkably hangover-free Sunday brought more delightful weather, and a chance to get out into the countryside. My photography homework this week was ‘portraits’, and Ant was very long-suffering in letting me take endless snaps of him sitting in trees, pausing at gates and even tucking into a hearty brunch from the little café in Stanmer village. The intense winter sun was perfect for capturing the surrounding colours of the countryside, already sporting the first signs of spring - with the odd crocus bursting up, and even blossom on some of the trees. Nikki joined us for a walk, giving Ant a break from the constant modelling, as I subjected her to some paparazzi action on the way up to Ditchling Beacon. Brian was waiting outside, keyboard in tow, when we arrived home, and we rehearsed for next weekend’s big wedding – my first same-sex civil ceremony – at which we shall be performing ‘Nobody Does It Better’, with tongue firmly in cheek. This pleasantly eventful weekend was rounded off with the hilariously bad Ghost Rider, starring a typically hammy Nicholas Cage, complete with dodgy toupee. It is certainly a strong contender for the ‘Top Ten Best Bad Films’ blog, which I’ve been thinking about for a while, and am now newly inspired to write, so watch this space.

Retox Weekend

I never understand why so many people decide to detox by giving up booze right after Christmas. January is the most boring, cold and brassic month of the year, so staying sober just seems foolish to me. Much better to save one's dry month (if you must have one at all) until summer, when there's plenty else to do, and everything seems more fun to start with. So I was most perturbed when 'him indoors' announced on New Year's Day that he would be abstaining for the next four weeks. This may have made him feel very virtuous and wholesome, but it actually meant that I ended up drinking twice as much, since I find it almost impossible not to polish off a bottle of wine once opened. It felt like a long month for both of us, so I was most relieved when 1^st February rolled around and I could gleefully thrust a beer into his hand and welcome him back to the land of the lush with open arms. This glad occasion also happened to coincide with a busy weekend of socialising that kicked off with the Concorde 2 21^st birthday party on Friday and rolled into Damien's birthday on Saturday. The Concorde celebrations were most disappointing, and felt more like a sixth form leaver's ball than a swish corporate function at a top live music venue. I didn't even manage to get any decent photographs (except this one below). But Ant's euphoric reunion with beer thankfully distracted him from getting too agitated at the awfulness of it all, and we actually both enjoyed having a bit of a scathe before staggering back up the hill.

Son of Robot at Concorde 2

Saturday's far preferable jollities involved a session in the Regency, which always seems to lead to much singing and campery, followed by Ookey Ook at the Engine Room. I finally got to have a decent boogie (after several abortive attempts in the last few weeks) along to exactly my kind of music, and although the Engine Room unfortunately does smell pretty bad (I don't even want to consider of what), it has a certain seedy charm and is only a short walk from the Regency, a major bonus in such blustery weather as we are currently experiencing. Ookey Ook is a monthly night put on there by the same people who do Born Bad at Komedia, and they play similar sort of 50s/60s swing, soul, ska etc, but it's less girlie-centric. I'm not sure what time we stayed until, but I knew it was time to leave when the boys started doing a three-way pole dance that involved some rather disturbing mutual bum-slapping. See how much better life is under the influence of alcohol...

Brian, Ant & Tim - three-way pole dancing

A Night of Debauchery

On Saturday I went to my first ever Lost Vagueness event up in London. A twisted, burlesque club/cabaret night, LV started as an alternative sideshow at Glastonbury festival a few years back and has evolved into one of the most esteemed outfits on the alternative entertainment scene, laying on various events and festivals throughout the year, at which literally anything goes. My LV virginity was taken at the latest of these, The Valentine's Day Massacre, held at The Coronet in Elephant & Castle. Being a fancy dress afficionado, I was especially excited at the prospect of partying with like-minded costume-loving show-offs, and I wasn't disappointed. An exotic array of apparel presented itself as we entered, with everything from cyber-goth to theatrical/vintage style outfits being worn with confidence by the eclectic crowd. There was also plenty of exposed flesh, and no shortage of ripped stockings and smudged make-up, and this was before things had even really got going! My costume comprised a slinky Victoriana-inspired ensemble, along with black wings to complete my 'kinky cupid' look.

We spent the early part of the evening getting our bearings, swigging cava and soaking up all the visual stimulation on offer. There was much excitable frolicking to observe, some of the best people-watching you could hope for. One of my favourite moments was witnessing a kinky-nun attempting to use one of the giant pink balloons on the dancefloor as a pilates ball, and ending up crashing to the floor in spectacular style as it unsurprisingly burst beneath her. The venue, a converted theatre, was spread over two floors - downstairs a dancefloor and the main stage where the bands played, then upstairs a more intimate bar area, with a small cabaret stage for the various kooky acts. These included a man dressed as a cyborg, sawing off his cyber-penis - all very surreal. After queuing for what seemed like an eternity, whilst being psyched out by two freaky ladies on the door, we were finally let into the 'Hate Booth', in which an enraged man behind bars wearing bad pants hurled abuse at us and the other two girls in our mini-audience. Unfortunately by this point I was too far-gone to come up with any witty retortes, and just sat there, stunned, as I was cursed, castigated and insulted for several minutes.

Seven hours of frivolity, feistiness and flailing later, and suddenly it was 6am and time to go home. I couldn't believe the night had gone by so quickly, and slightly regret getting so wasted that the last few hours are a bit of a blur. Now sporting an impressive array of UDIs (unidentified drinking injuries), I can only imagine whatever I got up to must have involved either falling down stairs, a wrestling match, or some impressive acrobatics. If there are any witnesses out there who can remember beating up a wasted kinky cupid, perhaps you could own up and spare me the misery of my failing memory... Not content with shedding whatever thin veneer of dignity I had in front of the fairly new friends I went with, it seems somehow fitting that, like a true fallen angel, I also lost my wings. Still feeling distinctly jaded today, I am getting vexingly hazy recollections popping into my addled mind at regular intervals, making me smile and cringe in equal measure. I guess that's what Lost Vagueness is all about... Can't wait for the next one!