It might not be possible to get a more British festival than Victorious. Not just because every headliner on the main Common Stage is from these bruised isles, but because it has enjoyed all the weather the British summertime allows it. Blue skies, warm sun, grey clouds, fine and then bucketing rain. Wince and repeat.
It’s starts in glorious sunshine. Razorlight are much maligned but it’s a hefty crowd for 1.15pm and they play nothing but the hits. ‘In The Morning’, ‘Stumble and Fall’, ‘Golden Touch‘, ending with a huge ‘America‘. General consensus is it’s a highlight of the day. Time for a renaissance? This new album better be good then Johnny. Johnny, B Goode.
The Murder Capital are possibly a little incongruous. Having seen them in small venues on small stages, the ginormous Common Stage is probably just a bit too big for their intense brooding style. It doesn’t quite translate to a sunny Friday on the English south coast.
There are plenty of Snuts t-shirts roaming around and then rumours begin to circulate that The Sherlocks have replaced them. There are some very unhappy campers. It’s very forgettable and easily ignorable swanning around the Premium area with its short bar queues, plenty of places to sit and chat in the sun and Guinness on tap. I’m nothing if not relatable.
Louis Tomlinson appears to be doing the One Direction back catalogue to a cacophony of screaming teenagers, and probably some adults too as it all starts to disappear in the distance as we approach the food courts. If anything there’s too much choice. If I was an Instagram influencer and someone who posted pictures of my food it’d have shown chicken tikka but not in a Masala, more of a sharp, sour sauce, and a Middle Eastern malange of chickpeas and chicken and other goodness. And two ginormous vegetable samosas. Scrummy.
Idles are utterly imperious. Entering to a shuddering, elongated ‘Colossus‘, Joe Talbot prowls and struts, his pink highlights atop his grinning face. ‘Car Crash’, ‘Mother’, ‘Never Fight A Man With A Perm’, ‘Samaritans‘ are delivered with the violent love they are experts in, dedicating final song ‘Rottweiler‘ to the immigrants that have built this country.
An angry drunk Scotsman begins hurling abuse at the stage, from a hundred metres away, a real hard man shouting in to the void of loud, thrashing guitars, drums and people charging around screaming their heads off as one man gets annoyed about an anti racist, pro immigration song. It’s a beautiful thing to watch as every single one of his utterances are drowned out by love and tolerance and acceptance in a way that is obviously scaring him and his little world. It’s working then.
Maximo Park and in particular, Paul Smith, are veterans of this kind of festival, and they know how to own this kind of slot. That being said, they could have played more hits, but their new LP got a bit of an airing, and they play something from every one of their eight albums. They have staying power and some huge anthems that suit this kind of day. It’s a joy nonetheless.
We glide back to the Common Stage as Gary Lightbody is telling us to open our eyes, shut our eyes, run, and lay down. Yawn. More Guinness please.
Fat Boy Slim is less fucking in heaven, than playing various bits of ‘Burning Down The House‘ by Talking Heads in a weird order as we disappear off to find Chris Helme, who is proving illusive. His set is heavy on The Seahorses and that’s what you expect from a festival headline slot. A few smatterings of his excellent new album, A World Of My Own, but it’s mainly Do It Yourself smasheroos, starting with album opener ‘I Want You To Know’, and smashing through ‘Hello’, ‘Love Me and Leave Me’, ‘Love Is The Law‘, non album single ‘You Can Talk To Me‘ and ending on a rousing singalong of ‘Blinded By The Sun’. Despite obviously being very proud and keen for everyone to get into his new record you can see how much it still means to have a crowd of people bellowing back your lyrics over a quarter of century later.
Saturday. Heavy rain. We hid away in the Hide Away Cafe for sustenance and shelter before braving the drizzle just as Busted were announced as the surprise act for the Saturday 1pm slot on the Castle Stage.
“Victorious make some fucking noise” the first thing to come out of Charlie Simpson’s mouth. Or words to that effect. “Thank you so fucking much” “You guys are fucking amazing” “You having a fucking good time?” ”We want to to see every fucking one of you jumping” and “We’ve been in this band for 20 fucking years”. Mind your language boys. Topped off by a change of lyrics by Matt Willis from “i dropped a pencil on the floor, so she could show me more” to “…..show me her vagina” in ‘That’s What I go To School For‘. Classy. It was endearing to watch so many small children on shoulders as they went through their ditties about wanting to have sex with School Teachers, Air hostesses and people’s thousand year old great great great granddaughters. They can write a tune mind and ones that have stood the test of 20 years of time. More than can be said for most pop these days. Oh shut up granddad.
Tom Walker is serenading us as we walk back down to the Common Stage, he’s going to leave the light on. Thanks Tom, it’s pitch black at the tent. Nice one.
Crystal Tides are a local band, for local people and they drive through a radio friendly unit shifter of a set. They are humble lads though who seem genuinely bewildered to be on the main stage and announce their biggest headline gig yet at Portsmouth Guildhall. Good luck to you lads.
CMAT is the love child result of an orgy between Kate Bush, Bonnie Tyler, Father John Misty and Enjoyable Listens. Which is a very very good thing indeed. She absolutely owns the humongous stage and this writer is an official convert. Next time I will be on the barrier crying and begging for a hug with the rest of you. Glorious stuff.
The Lightning Seeds have banished the grey clouds and bring the greatest hits set, culminating in a rousing rendition of ‘Three Lions’, minus Baddiel and Skinner but the whole field is singing every word. Fuck you ‘Sweet Caroline’.
A lull in proceedings as The Lathums inoffensively drift our way as we conjugate the food stalls, before settling in for Eaves Wilder Under The Trees to aid digestion. We then venture to the Castle Stage for Sugababes to rattle through all their gold. Cos I’m a Freak, me. And freaks like me. Round Round. Woof.
Pixies are never going to convert a new audience and after smashing straight into ‘Gouge Away‘, Frank Black tells the band to go straight into ‘Wave of Mutilation‘, clearly in a hurry. To be fair, this isn’t really his crowd. Sure there are a few loyal devotees in Pixies t-shirts, but it’s not a horde of them. One thing you can’t say about Victorious is that it’s not eclectic. Where else would you get 00’s pop classics followed by late 80’s U.S Alternative Rock? There was still a smattering of parents with young children who maybe thought Pixies were a Disney type girl group with wings and wands.
The campsite was boisterous. No, toilets weren’t set on fire. Reading this ain’t. No tents had taken off, Leeds this isn’t.
There’s been an accident on the way into Pompey on Sunday, the roads are gridlocked. Personal Trainer are nearly through as we hop off the bus and the final strains can be heard as we approach the gate with a queue as long Nandos when they’re giving away free mildly spicy and tasteless emaciated chicken.
But everyone is heading for The Kooks. And when I say everyone, I mean about twenty thousand people. Maybe. There was a ruddy lot of people, put it that way. They did what you expect. The one about Furbies, the one about the seaside, not the one about the lady with the large mammary glands called Jackie. And ‘Naïve‘. Obvs.
The Futureheads have come a fucking long way. By that I mean Sunderland. They’re also purveyors of huge angular indie, three way harmony gold. ‘Skip To The End’, ‘Decent Days And Nights’, ‘Meantime’, ‘Good Night Out‘, and the biggest and best cover version this side of ‘Valerie‘ in Kate Bush’s ‘Hounds Of Love‘, in their own inimitable style.
James Walsh doesn’t arse about and jumps straight into ‘Good Souls‘, one of Starsailor‘s best singles. It’s only a pit stop though, sorry James, we’re back off to the Common Stage, where Yard Act bewilder as much as entertain. They say they make hits, but I’d wager the majority of the crowd aren’t familiar with them, although ‘The Overload‘ (not a Sugababes cover) and ‘100% Endurance’ go down well.
The Pigeon Detectives aren’t sorry. Neither am I for missing most of their set. No offence lads, just everything is overrunning on the Common Stage.
Not to put too fine a point on it but it’s fucking rammed today. Solitude in the Premium lounge and Guinness.
Full disclosure, three days of doing laps of Southsea Common and these feet needed some TLC from First Aid. No they didn’t sing ‘No Scrubs’ at them (although they probably could do with a scrub) just some plasters.
Wandering around, trying to keep the circulation going in our feet, there is a heaving mass emanating from the Big Top/Comedy Stage. It’s Barrioke. This would be Shaun Williamson aka Barry Evans from EastEnders slash Extras. He’s got some pipes and is dueting with members of the crowd on stuff like ‘Dancing Queen’, ‘Reach For The Stars’ and ‘Mr Brightside‘.
Arlo Parks brings the slower grooves, some neo-soul with R’n’B leanings, and then strapped on her guitar and did her best impression of Simon Neil from Biffy Clyro, tearing about the stage like a banshee
There is something about standing by the sea wall, wind lashing sea mist and rain at your face as Biffy Clyro raise Poseidon from the Solent, his trident are devil horns. ‘Biblical‘ it very much is. This is a closing headline act. Even if you aren’t a fan, it’s a show to behold. You can’t go wrong with an opening gambit of ‘The Captain’, ‘Golden Rule’ and ‘Who’s Got A Match‘ either. There’s a variety across their most recent albums from Puzzle to The Myth Of The Happily Ever After, with thundering renditions of ‘Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies’, ‘Black Chandelier’, ‘Mountains‘, and ‘Bubbles‘ with a touching version of ‘Machines‘ with just Simon, his guitar and a violinist. It’s all over with ‘Many Of Horror‘ sending fireworks in to the night sky. You gave us magical and you gave us wonderful.
The last time this writer was at Victorious was apparently seven years ago, the passing through the time vacuum of COVID has condensed living memory, but it’s grown, in square miles, in reputation and in stature. The organisation is on another level, access is superb, facilities for every kind of ability, from your fully able to your severely disabled, special toilets and bathroom with trained care. So much food choice, bars at every turn and copious, well organised transport to the campsite and a huge support network.
Weary and happy and weather beaten and joyful. It’s an important summer festival staple. Glorious Victorious.
Photos courtesy of Victorious Festival/Strong Island
