Chillwalk

Hull's close relationship with the Big Chill Festival continued this year with the Hull Samba Band, Kingston Bateria, one of the beneficiaries when they were invited to perform. So come over to the Sandman campfire as Chillwalk, the band's trumpeter, tells his tale of a long weekend; back when July was becoming August in the Malvern Hills of Herefordshire.

THURSDAY, 3:00pm

If you are ever invited to play at a festival, insist on getting a proper ticket. Because when they ask you to print out a crappy PDF of a list that any mug could knock up on Photoshop, and show it to the people on the gate, you can be more or less guaranteed a fun-filled afternoon of wrangling, blagging, pleading, and chasing of wild geese. Alternatively, don't be the first to turn up, on your own, just a few hours after the gates open on the first day. Let someone else in the band do the legwork and blaze the trail for you.

PLEBBY

Finally, I got a plebby punter's wristband instead of a cushy artist's but I didn't care. They wouldn't look after my trumpet because we were only busking and then playing in a small marquee, not one of the main arenas, but there were some free lockups for punters dotted around the site. To be honest I just wanted to get the tent up before it rained again and I'd be a happy man.

Yes, I appreciate the irony of having a big stress at a festival called the Big Chill.

FRIDAY

There weren't many things I absolutely had to see so we spent most of the day just wandering around. In the afternoon, I finally saw Son of Dave after being amazed by him on Jools Holland a few years ago and missing his Big Chill set last year. Later on, a main stage appearance by Roisin Murphy (ex Moloko) was another highlight.

SATURDAY, 1:00 pm

1:30pm: The designated time for the band to meet.

The last of the band members arrives. Call me naïve but I turned up early, thinking we could get it all sorted and still have free time to enjoy the festival. We were to perform once in the afternoon, busking in the open air in the hippy field at the northernmost part of the site. Our heavy and immensely bulky equipment was in a locker on the southernmost edge of the site. Judging from my experience on Thursday, I didn't hold out much hope of getting the festival crew to give us a lift, and so was preparing for a long walk back to the locker, only to have to go straight back with a 24 inch drum strapped to my back in the blazing sunshine.

As it happens, we were able to get in the queue for Landover assistance and the drums arrived relatively quickly, although we still had to carry them ourselves from the entrance of the field to the performance area. At about 3pm, we had all out stuff and we decided to play at 4:30 to avoiding a clash with other acts who were performing in various Bedouins dotted around the edge of the field.

The designated performance time came and went. About a quarter of an hour later, the last remaining stragglers of the band turned up, and we spent a further 10 minutes deciding whether to move across another 2 feet and which way to face. Eventually we started playing and it was OK. Not rubbish, but not brilliant either. Perhaps it went really well but I was in a foul mood about how long it had taken to get organised, just for a 20 minute, unannounced performance. Maybe a performer's festival diary should go into more detail, but I'll do it for the second set, I promise…

Then came the fun part of actually carrying the drums halfway back across the site, through the main stage arena, and up the steep hill to where the evening's 'proper' performance would take place.

MUDDY LITTLE OYSTER

After stashing the gear I was finally free! For an hour and a half until we had to be back to set up and whatnot, the festival was my muddy little oyster. We got some food (although not oysters or crepes) and headed over to catch a stripped acoustic set by Beth Orton on the Castle Stage, the festival's second largest outdoor arena. The set consisted mainly of classics from her first and second albums interspersed with newer material but it was unfortunate that at the quieter times, the sound from the main stage spilled over from the next field and shattered the ambience.

8pm: This was our moment. However, this was also the Mighty Boosh's moment, as they were making their much-hyped appearance on the main stage at exactly the same time. I wasn't too fussed about missing it, although I would have gone if I could. It was just a shame that everyone else was going to choose them over us and we knew it. Ah, well, our marquee was only small and there was a hardcore of friends and family and a fair few new faces as well, so it felt pretty busy.

After the practice session of the afternoon, we were ready to unleash the full force of our set, including the elements that had to be ditched when playing outside, electronic sounds and FX and an amplified Cavaquinha (a Portuguese variation on the Ukulele).

CRACK WHORE

The audience were up and dancing almost from the first beat. Our first piece, known as 'Crack Whore' (don't ask, I didn't come up with it) combines complex jungle beats with riffs from the reggae classic 'Satta Massa Ganna' and Missy Elliot's 'Get Ur Freak On', and also gives a showcase to conscious rapper Paul, who tackles subjects such as freedom of speech, police brutality, and spiritual enlightenment. He had pleased the crusties in the hippy field earlier on, and pulled the same trick again.

Having watched the band as a percussion-only outfit several times over the past few years, I was worried when they finally agreed to let me play with them a few months ago. Obviously I was stoked, but I wanted to make sure it was done right and would add to the sound without detracting from the raw energy of the original line up. Based on how that song was received, I think we're on the right track.

The main body of the performance was taken up by the percussion-only band's tour de force, a 15 minute-plus rhythm and groove workout called the Batucada which drew more dancers to the floor. Then came the time for me to return to the stage for the finale piece, which we had not done earlier in the day. In fact we hadn't done it since my first gig with the band a few weeks before, due to two key members of the band being in France.

FEARS OF UNDERPREPAREDNESS

The song, Stevie Wonder's 'Another Star' from the 'Songs in the Key of Life' album, features the inimitable vocal skills of Audrey, a face from Hull's music scene for many years, including a long stint as the frontwoman for Hull legends Back to Base. Any fears of underpreparedness, (is that a word?), were quickly set aside as we settled into the groove and delivered a blistering rendition, even if I do say so myself.

And before I knew it, it was all over. My plan was to congratulate the rest of the band, pack up the gear and bugger off to find the cider tent as quickly as possible. As I left the stage however, I was approached by a man who shook me by the hand and called our performance "Absolutely inspirational" It's always nice to know people like what you do but most of the time I find it a bit embarrassing when they big it up too enthusiastically. I was about to make my excuses when he said something that would knock me for six.

He rolled up his trousers to reveal a prosthetic leg. "I lost my leg in June" (did he mean June this year? I never found out.) "I lost my leg and tonight was the first time since it happened that I have danced. Your music can make a one-legged man dance"

STAND STILL AND THINK

Looking back on it, all the waiting and walking and stressing and carrying, the blagging at the gate getting rained on and getting nowhere for two hours, all of it was leading up to this moment. He'd shocked me out my agitated state and forced me to stand still and think for a moment. I can't quite describe exactly how it makes me feel to have had him say that to me. I suppose it's a mixture of pride, amazement and a little bit of shame at allowing myself to get riled up by things that didn't matter when there are so many people with real problems: I'd just got into a festival for free, and played two sets to small but very appreciative crowds. I had the rest of the evening and all the next day to relax and enjoy it, and I was whining about missing a couple of hours' worth of acts that I was never that bothered about to start off with. This guy's lost a leg, possibly only a few weeks ago, and he's just carrying on like it ain't no thang.

I could go on to describe how we saw an exclusive, unpublicised Hexstatic audio-visual set, or the legendary Leonard Cohen, or how my friend woke up in the medical tent not once but twice after concerned passers-by thought he might have been overdoing it. I could tell you any of the hundred and one little festival anecdotes that occurred between then and getting home on Monday, but to be honest, I doubt if you really need to hear it. You probably had to be there.

Even for me who was there, it all pales into insignificance when measured against that little moment in a marquee halfway up the hill, as the sun was beginning to set and the majority of the festival was enjoying the end of the Mighty Boosh, when I glimpsed at close quarters the transcendent and redemptive power of music.

Chillwalk