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A little gem with the true potential to become a classic in the festi- val circuit. As the average music lover is spoilt for choice for festivals throughout the year it was refreshing to have a completely different vibe and all together new theme. The Clubbers Festival. Not only does each individual stage feel like a mini club (each authenticated with it’s own mini queue outside, and ever so slightly busy bars inside) but your then graced with your own apartment to carry on the party with. As if the sofas, sinks and special all day ‘BLOC TV’

(airing Japanese soft porn for the most part, or

something that seemed a lot like it) weren’t enough to make your apartment the perfect post DJ pad a lot of goers had come equipped with there own sound system and some sort of music playing de- not an iPod nano plugged into portable speakers, were talking CDJs and the such.

Music picked up as the weekend went on, which was a shame as Adam Beyer headlined the first night. But with a line up full of stellar DJs and few live smashing live acts it wasn’t about the headliners, it was about quality music. High points: Flying Lotus set and Derrick Mays closing set complete with exploding showers of confetti, nearly bought I tear to my eye...I didn’t want to leave.

This being said I’m sure most Bloc goers will admit that a shameful amount of time was spent in the arcade, if not spending money at least being hypnotised by the pretty lights. ‘Was mostly playing Time Crisis at BLOC, fear and loathing in Butlins’ was a general theme to the weekend given by one BLOC attendee. ‘Tickets tick- ets tickets’ confessed another. But before you judge, you know you would have been the same! Flashing lights, slot machines and all in the central part of the festival, its a trap!

Overall the festival had room for improvement. Hopefully next year Beyer (or counterpart) will be on Saturday and by then the crowds will be warmed up for a proper party. No standing in front of the stage and having a little chat please, we want dancing.

This being said it was amazing for how young it is and no body want- ed to leave at the end (I personally had to be dragged kicking and screaming, and ultimately missed transport home, oops) It seemed the weird (extremely weird) magic of raving in Butlins had cast a spell on its visitors and forever we shall be enchanted.


Bigger than Hip Hop

Seb Roskell

The anti hip hop hurrah of 2 years ago has kicked back into full swing after the an- nouncement that Snoop Dogg may be getting a headline slot at Glastonbury this year (visa pending off course). Can’t really understand the ar- gument myself there was the same flurry of painfully self important blustering before Jay Z headlined and what hap- pened there. He triumphed. Bringing festival music up to date with a new spirit of eclec- ticism and he made Noel Gal- lagher look a bit silly.

The same tired old argument about ‘origi- nality’ and that hip hop artists steal loops and samples is wheeled out time and time again like some snobbish old rock- er bemoaning commercialism and then selling car insurance. If you’ve listened to Oasis recently you’ll have noticed that they have been a high end Beatles tribute band ever since their admittedly seminal first 2 albums were realised more than a decade ago.

Maybe it’s something to do with what we are presented with as discerning festival goers and musio’s and Snoop just isn’t highbrow enough. Maybe if it was The Beasties Boys, De La Soul, or the Wu Tang Clan there wouldn’t be the same amount of vitriol aimed at hip hop headlining acts but I also imagine you wouldn’t get the crowds either. Perhaps even the life long head would admit that too much ‘hove’ can go a

long way and they really can’t abide any ‘shizzling of bizzle’ but they would also have to admit that both are legends in their genre and that no record collection would be the same without both their first 2 albums.

I would bet my Nova rims and my antique Hi Teks that he’d put on a good show, more old school than new school. They’ll be heads bopping from the trustafarian set, to the 30 year old married fathers of 3, all the way through the bacon butty vendors and Technicolor rave heads when he inevitably drops it like its hot, gets upside your head and tells them what his muthafucking name is. Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40
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