I’ve never really been one for acting my age. I like
Twilight. I use words like ‘totes’ and ‘awesome’ in a non-ironic sense. I only
own two hand towels (and both have seen better days). Last night I ate a bowl
of cookie dough for dinner.*
But even I was
apprehensive about going to this drum and bass festival up Mount Vitosha. I mean, I loved rave and jungle in the 90s. I even wangled half a morning off
school in October 1994 because I’d been dancing my arse off at a Prodigy gig
the night before. (My mum wrote me a note saying I’d been at the dentist. Coolest
ma ever, or just off her face from giving birth to my brother two days before?
You decide.) But now? At my age? With my bad hip?
We’ll be the oldest
people there by a mile, I thought. Followed by, I’m not even sure what drum and bass is. But the lure of the weird
(drum and bass + 40 hours non-stop + Bulgaria + up a mountain) was too strong
to ignore. If nothing else, I figured it would give me something new to write about
and give you, dear reader, a break from reading about tomatoes and courgettes. So
off we pootled with a bunch of English friends, down to Sofia and up the
mountain.
Here’s what I learned:
It really is right up
the mountain. The festival is set in a clearing around 1,500m up the
mountain, with woods, trails and streams all around. The sound of drum and bass
wafting through the trees as we hiked up from the car was pretty weird.
Hiking up through the forest. |
Exploring one of the trails. |
Literally in a field, up a mountain. |
It’s cold up there at
night. This is probably obvious to you because you’re not a complete moron.
I, on the other hand, was completely unprepared for how bone-soppingly cold it
was in the middle of the night. Up the mountain. I know, I know, I’m an idiot.
There are many different
kinds of dance music. Young Rob (not Uncle Bulgaria Rob), an actual Young
Person, had been filling us in on the various different genres on the way to
the festival. In my day, as far as I remember, there was basically rave, techno,
house and jungle. Now, apparently, there’s all sorts, like hard house, deep house,
bounce, drum and bass, hardstyle, jazz hands, minky, and sniff. (I may have
made some of those up, but you get the idea: there’s a lot.) All I know is, I
really liked some of it, and some of it was so samey and repetitive I may as
well have been listening to my washing machine.
Loving the medium-core boobly bop, or whatever was playing at this precise moment. |
We were not the
oldest folk there. The sight of a lone 40-year-old man, mashed off his nut,
trying to eat cheesy chips confirmed that we were not the most tragic people in
the field. Not by a long way.
It’s good to blend
in. When it’s a largely local crowd and everyone just has those tiny throw-up
tents, and you are SEVEN English people with a GIANT two-roomed tent … and all
the camping gear … and a FUCKING DRONE, you might stand out a bit. (I would
like to point out that none of that stuff was mine. I brought a clean pair of
pants, earplugs and a box of Nurofen.) The drone was a huge hit with the crowd
though, especially at night when it looked like a little spaceship.
Dancing is like time
travel. Sure, on the outside I may have looked like a 35-year-old with bad
posture and sensible boots. But on the inside I was back in Southampton
Guildhall in October 1994, dancing in my knee-high boots and wondering how late
I could go into school the next day. Also, dancing keeps you warm. Which is
handy when you’re up a mountain.
The courgettes were
awesome. Only joking. There were no courgettes there.
We just stayed for the Friday night/Saturday morning – we
left after two DJs in masks came on and started playing some angry Korn/techno
mashup stuff – so I have no idea what the second night was like. But I do know
I’ll be going back next year and staying the whole weekend. With my thermals.
Like the old bird that I am.
Nope. |