It's Contra Pop!

Hands up who know where Ramsgate is? Anyone? Well we definitely didn't until we heard about the Contra Pop Festival, a free musical bash taking place just near the pier in this weird coastal town somewhere in deepest, darkest Essex. The line up was certainly ear provoking enough to make it worth the journey east to a town which managed to mix up the run down with the weird to suitably bizarre effect. Here are some of the things we learned in our eight hours in Ramsgate...

Golliwogs are rife

Everywhere we turned,there appeared to be a golliwog staring back at us. While the rest of the UK has smoked these out, it seems that they've all flocked to Ramsgate as they believe there's safety in numbers.

Ramsgate's grappers cough up the goods

Everywhere else we've ever been, the grappers never, never ever cough up a fluffy tour or cannon or whatever it is you're seeking. But in Ramsgate we managed to get a doughnut. A fucking doughnut!

The fish is delish

Cod and chips - fucking tasty as fam.

Bass Clef

This Bristol producer managed to blend weird ambience. brass instruments and thumping techno more reminiscent of Berghain than the seaside. The sunbathing locals seemed suitably bemused.  

Lo-Fi 

The knees up - ramshackle

Waiting for another IPA

Sunday bloody Sunday

Hype day t’other Sunday. With the lagers of the past 48 hours equating to a blanket of bad taste and gloom, it was a day for manning up and taking the fear on the chin.

After aurally ingesting an injection of good cheer to the face via a viewing of Fantastic Mr Fox, we headed down to the Royal Festival Hall to catch a ‘free’ dubstep jazz session fronted by the chubby digi-skills of Bass Clef. It was a classic jazz culture hoe down on the South Bank. Coffees, kids, newspapers and earnest conversation. We sidestepped stretching the brain fabric in a philosophical direction and opted for the bar.

During our first pint we witnessed two dudes sitting in front of laptops plonking away at their keyboards - they wore masks while frantically typing out code live. Each letter and piece of typing equated to some form of skronking feedback while onlookers sat on bean bags and the floor bopping away to the ‘happening’. Groundbreaking? Not really. Boring? Perhaps. Idiotique? Defiantly.

The second ‘piece’ involved the projection of piano keys onto the back wall while carefully placed microphones reacted to the light from the keys to emanate sound. It was time for a bifta. If we hadn’t, then the levels of potential pretension could have become so engorged they threatened to blow the entire Festival Hall away. I’m all for a freak out but there needs to be something resembling a point. Purleaze.

When we were mildly zonged, Bass Clef ambled on with trombone, sequencers and armfuls of heaviness to blow the foam of our pints. It was top bottom heavy until the accompanying musicians attempted to join in. Even the Clef sarcastically announced “now it’s time for a journey”. Verve colloborator BJ Cole looked a little lost - come on grandad - this is bass music - not lullabies for twats -Thankfully most of the little shitty kids spent his set walking around with hands over their ears to add to the unreality of proceedings. .

On the way home we checked in with Greg Wilson at the Horse and Groom - the place was like Ibiza except at 6.30pm on a wet Sunday evening near Liverpool Street. Disco, drug deals and dancing were all going down - It was almost too much and meant an emergency stop for a happy meal en route home. Top conkers like but I’m a little pooped just thinking about it.