Maybe it’s the frenzy watching the fractured crystal disco of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah or hearing 200 – the Faroe Islands answer to Dead Kennedys. Perhaps it’s Sigur Ros filling our hearts till they almost burst or wandering across the common with good tunes and people coming at us from all sides. Though it could be dancing to Northern Soul in a sand-filled barn at 2am. We’re not sure when, but at some point it strikes us: this is how it should be done.
Once a year, the fine city of Roskilde is invaded for a music party with all the profits going to charidee. The fun begins with the ‘pre-festival’ several days before the main shebang. Danish acts provide the tunes and other thrills include skating, swimming and drinking too much reasonably priced lager. As the big bands roll in, the weather shifts to head-cooking heat, while music wise there really is summat for everyone. From the witty spits and beats of Lady Sovereign to the Gypsy-punk jiggery of Gogol Bordello, the Lo-Fi, doom-Blues of Silver Jews, the ferocious grinds and scratches of Coldcut, and the fast and loose discolicks of Franz Ferdinand. England go out of the World Cup, but with an atmosphere like this who cares.
Roskilde is about top music and great times, not making a fast buck and it shows – even the security shakes their booty. As the sun sets on a great festival, Infadels keep the last loons standing with their anthemic Trance Punk as The Fly hits the road with sounds ringing in our ears and the smell of urine in our nostrils. It’s been a good week.
By Kenn Taylor