Electric Picnic: Three glorious days in the doldrums

By Cormac Mc Carthy

There is no sign that summer has truly come to an end quite like the proverbial email from the college fees office informing us that its time, once again, to fork over the dough. However, before we keel over and lapse back into that lingering Monster addiction, the luckiest of us can transition into autumn with the behemoth of a festival that is Electric Picnic. 

Through yellow wind and rain warnings and mud paths deep enough to bankrupt the wellies industry, the hardiest braved all three days and came out the other side profoundly changed. 

My festival experience started with a train to Laois far too early on Friday morning, arriving at half eight, surrounded by a few hundred or so bleary-eyed festival goers. While they all stampeded for the shuttle buses to take them the 4-mile journey for €7 each, I convinced three other Corkonians to share a taxi between the four of us for the grand price of €6 apiece. What a money saver! Already, I can hear RTÉ putting my consumer advice show into development. We arrived and I quickly separated from the lads with such sweet sorrow. 

Going through security, I could see a lot of sheepish faces around me, nervously hoping a certain part of their bag wouldn’t get searched. I glanced ahead to catch sight of many people on the other side who were nearly collapsing with relief. “Sorry lad, we’re checking every third person.” the bouncer says. He gave me a pat down which would rank very highly in WatchMojo’s list of “Top 10 Most Lacklustre Security Checks”. It’s a good thing too on account of the litre I had in my backpack. 

I eventually met up with the rest of my group after walking for an hour or so to find them in the campsite. They had driven and I got the train, so it was only fair that I carry the tent. My arms were aching, but I was happy just to finally lie down.

Everyone around me looked like they had just come off the red carpet for the first day of the festival; all dolled up to the nines. Certainly, a far cry from the wellies and poncho combo that would very quickly be the hottest thing to wear. I erected the tent with success. A proper one mind you, with actual waterproofing, not one of those glorified instant gazebos that leak rain like a sieve. 

I had passed a bunch of lads earlier holding a sign earlier that said “Having Trouble with Your Tent? We’ll pitch it for €20!” I had initially smirked at the thought but looking at the puzzled faces around me, I soon realised that they may go home millionaires. 

We all settled into the festival easily enough. We strolled around to start, exploring the area as best we could. With more than thirty stages around the place we were spoiled for choice. It was logistical hell trying to dart back and forth between the acts you wanted to see. 

I was dressed like a 1980s children’s tv host, Hawaiian-shirt-clad in the early days of September and without a hint of irony about me. 

The first act was 100 Gecs, an act that I was roped into going to. Described as a hyper-pop duo with pulsating energy by the festival app, they brought every last drop of energy they could muster. They were perfect for the moment as while everyone was settling in, within two songs they had managed to get everyone there up and dancing like their relative’s kidney depended on it. 

Following them, I went to Willow, the daughter of famous Rock-Slapper Will Smith. Despite the audience’s restlessness from waiting for “Meet Me at Our Spot,” the set went well. The Pixies played after in the same tent, so I stuck around, clambering my way towards the front. Armed with a new bassist, they gave the audience everything they wanted, playing all the hits while sprinkling in a newer song or two here and there. 

I hurried over to the main stage to catch the end of Megan Thee Stallion’s set. Impressive though it was, I was determined to see local band The Love Buzz perform on the Mindfield stage. It was as if the regular patrons of An Bróg on Oliver Plunkett Street had taken the trip up specifically for that gig. Once again, I scurried off as soon as they finished to see Dermot Kennedy serenade 60 thousand or so festival goers with his sultry tones. 

Sensing the first drops of rain on my shoulder I strolled home before the worst of it started. The others scoffed at my intention to turn in at midnight, but I knew if I wanted to be able to even walk to the train station on Monday, I would need the rest. I got back to my tent just in time, with the rain already pelting against the canvas.

On Saturday, my friends and I awoke unscathed in our tent, eager to see the damage that had been done to all others who hadn’t been so lucky. We hadn’t gotten much sleep. The tent next to us had decided to play The Prodigy’s entire discography through the entire night. It was like trying to fall asleep while being shouted at by a slightly muffled prison guard. 

The first act we saw that day was Becky Hill. The number of gigs she has during the calendar year is astounding and she still manages to put on one hell of a show. Thanks to 96FM being the designated radio station during the day in a previous job I held, I was familiar with most, if not all, of her set. 

I had intended to see These Charming Men but in all the confusion, I mistakenly went to see Anne-Marie instead. “How bad?” I thought to myself as she finished up, having been enjoyably entertained for an hour or so. 

The Kooks followed on the main stage. After managing to squeeze our way to the front of the pack, they were only really playing for us as we gave it our all. To prove it, I managed to catch Luke Pritchard’s guitar pick when he threw it towards the crowd (on a side note, I am also currently charging a euro to view this luxury item). 

Feeling the lethargy, we took a break before Tame Impala. Their act was more of a light show accompanied by music but, nevertheless, they brought their A-game. We were unfortunate enough to be standing next to a passionate fan of their first album who was evidently of the opinion that anything else should be incinerated. He would throw fits of either delight or utter rage depending on which song they chose to play. To make matters worse, I made the mistake of bumping into him. This was followed by a lecture about the purity of their older stuff. I nodded along like you would to a toddler who has just told you their favourite flavour is purple. 

Sunday arrived in good spirits. I managed to catch a photo with a slightly disgruntled David McCullagh outside the podcasting tent and am currently charging a tenner for a signed copy (My signature not David’s).

Every single camper had fully committed to the wellies by this stage. With bags under our eyes big enough to carry our belongings home, I decided to take it easy in the morning with a Beach Boys cover band, a group of pirates performing sea-shanties and a little bit of crazy golf. 

That evening the rain truly set in. Through an almighty gale, I braved a quadruple bill of Joy Crookes, Snow Patrol, Khruangbin and Arctic Monkeys. 

There could not have been a better ending to the weekend. With the aforementioned Arctic Monkeys playing a whopping twenty-one songs, it was more than the crowd deserved. They played a healthy mix of hits and rarely heard album tunes to cap off a fantastic night. 

Thankfully, Monday morning came with clear skies. Had there been rain, we may have cried. After packing everything up and saying our sweet goodbyes to the friends we made along the way, my friend and I made our way to the train. 

Overall, I could not recommend the festival enough. It being my first one, I can understand how someone might be turned off by the incessant rain and the unpredictable nature of the festival. However, at Laois train station, I overheard a woman saying that the festival would definitely rank in her top 5 Electric Picnic Festivals that she has been to. 

All I could think of was that I wanted to be her when I grow up.