Words & pics: Kate J(B)ones I must have been near Wales because the sky was shitting bricks, but at least we were finally on our way to our only festival of 2009.

After the terribly disappointing cancellation of the Big Green Gathering (see my report here), we were at a loss of what to do with our weekend...where to go? Many whispered of alternative gatherings in West Country campsites, many mooted a trip to the Isle of Wight to support the Vestas action, but what we really wanted was the festival vibe, the characters, the music, the early morning madness...so we asked around and Nozstock was suggested. OK, I'll give it a go. Late license, you say?

Nozstock is billed as the 'original overgrown party in the garden', and it still maintains that vibe. I mean, the festival is quite literally in the farmers garden - one stage is almost on top of the dinky 17th century farm house, there's a rave going on in the cowshed, comedy performances in the orchard, and kids stuff and a cinema in the dingle. I am immediately stuck by how tiny this festival is. I've been to smaller, like a didj-fest in Devon that only had room for a couple of hundred, but for its format this feels small, too small and so, still smarting from my Big Green Disappointment, I resolved to drink so much rum I wouldn't know what the hell was going on.

Scanning the program, I resolved myself again to a weekend of discovery, as few of the acts I had heard of, yet this was eclectic fare and I was not disappointed. There was an enormous array of musical and artistic performance across eight stages, and the promise of bizarre wandering theatre. Floorspace, a group who provide 'bemusing critique of human behaviour' amuse me for a short while with their 1930's tea party... oh, is that cake for me? Really? You are so kind, yes cake is delightful! Thank you, wonky-moustached man.

Later on I came by another group who were quite beyond description, or comprehension...strange labyrinthine characters who insisted on taking a bad tempered aubergine for a walk. Hmm.

I've seen an old ally, and in true form to our ten-year friendship I don't draw attention to myself. Its not that I don't genuinely like the guy, its just that after five minutes in his company I want to despatch him with a piece of rock solid jelly. Oh look, an octopus... fancy that. After attempting to check that my drugs had not been spiked with more drugs, I submitted to the fact that there really was a giant octopus, and settled down to watch it dance. The drizzle is annoyingly persistent. Crap, he's spotted me.

Darkness falls and the people who are mad enough to be out enjoying themselves in the driving rain are bopping underneath a sea of umbrellas. It seems that everyone is falling over. There goes another one, this one face first. One of the cowsheds is blasting happy hardcore, the baseball capped chipmunk-loving ravers reduce me to hysterics and I take my leave.

What is it about the cinema tents at festivals that draw me in? Maybe it's because animation is the most expressive form of media, but this was a tremendous disappointment. Not the shorts themselves, the little I saw of them, but it was either a ghost tent or the projector had given up on life. I don't ask for much, but if your program promises me animation at 4pm or 3am, I expect said animation. Despite being charmed by the archaic bus seats, one couldn't help noticing how much the tent leaked! So leaky it was that no matter where I sat, raindrops would hit me in the eyeball, which would freak me out every minute or so...oh yeah, rum...nice.

Did I mention the mud? As previously inferred it's a nice one for ducks, and the mud is all enveloping, the woodchips that were dumped earlier are a source of amusement, as when mixed with the copious sludge the resulting mass sticks to the footwear and creates monstrous deformed impressions of feet gone wrong. Kicking these clumps off to great heights results in laughter and then a very muddy arse when one descends towards the ground from over-consumption of aforementioned rum.

The sun finally decides to shine with a few hours to spare. Staggering down to the hidden coppice containing the dark delights of Tribe of Frog, which I discover is still banging... its always banging... I stagger back again and come across Weapons of Sound, a large percussive ensemble that play anything from supermarket trolleys to sinks, pipes to scaffolding poles with the message being 'rethink rubbish', whilst the octopus makes another appearance. Fernando's Kitchen, a Latino flamenco folk fusion was also quite wonderful, providing me with a pleasant ending to a weekend of conflicting impressions, and a hangover that lasted a week.


Click below to view all images:
Nozstock website
www.nozstockfestival.co.uk