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Far better is
the lengthy improvised sections in the second half of the set, with
Hall riffing endlessly on the daily lives of the same unfortunate
couple in the front row. Oh, and the song about the George Foreman
grill is darn good ("If you won't cook my dinner, George Foreman
will").
If all this sounds a bit light-hearted, there was, like, proper
serious stuff as well. Sociologist Mark Steel delivers a
charming monologue to the literary crowd on Friday, centred around a
mission to rescue Karl Marx from symbolic monolithic status and
instead portray him as the fallible, lovable, impecunious boozer that
he apparently was.
But this being a Mark Steel lecture, staying on the
same subject for long is never on the cards, and so are led through a
serious of pleasant anecdotes about the ludicrousness of infighting
among the Far Left, a run-in between Tony Benn and Susannah York, and
some refreshing philosophical points about embracing change and
maintaining the ability to dream. In the hands of a less likeable
fellow this could be trite; instead it's pretty inspirational.
Poet-du-jour Simon Armitage delivered two sets, one of book
readings and one of poetry, reciting one about his "first steps on
planet sex". For someone who could easily be cocksure, he's a
surprisingly down to earth compere, despite much of his work not
striking to much of a chord.
At the Poetry Arena (arena you ask? No - just another tent),
entertainingly prefixed by Joel Stickley's half-rapped verse
played for much-deserved laughs, and Tim Turnbull's surreal
slam poetry, Carol Ann Duffy takes to the stage.
Readings from
the feted World's Wife anthology are no less welcome for their
familiarity, using figures such as Mrs Midas and Mrs Aesop to prick
the foibles of their husbands, and by association, men in general. But
this was no wanton man-bashing: Duffy's skill lies in her ability to
slip the knife in with the loveliest of smiles. The Rapture showcases
her more conventional love poetry; a deeply moving counterpoint to the
distant pounding of the rock stages.
If we've noticed one trend here (and, even through the beer haze,
there were a couple, ok?) it's the rise of a socially-conscious group
of young, white, female poets. Both Katie Tempest and
Dockers MC are young, chavvy and literate, and Tempest in
particular, who rhymes about the pressures of being a female MC in a
male-driven world AND Sophocles is a revelation. Her set is easily on
of the most surprising, and thrilling of the weekend, even if nerves
do threaten to overcome her at times.
Decadence at Latitude means a lot more than throwing a couple of
pills down your neck and washing them down with Somerset cider. The
Cabaret Arena comes alive every evening at around midnight, taking us
into a host of demi-mondes.Friday night sees the Vauxhall
Tavern crowd take over with dancing, lip-synching bears
(Bearlesque, anyone?) and a terrifying Kate Bush impersonator (hairy,
butch, head peeping out of a Punch & Judy stand, tiny puppet arms
waving). The Beautiful and the Damned DJs recreate a 1920s
speakeasy on Saturday night, and I'm told that later the same evening
someone had themselves suspended from the roof on meat hooks. All in
the name of the caaaa-baaaar-ay, you understand.
To repeat a phrase - we could go on. There's just too damn much to
take in, especially if you also like to, well, see some music.
Latitude is easily the best cultural festival we've attended outside
the Hay, and Glastonbury should be looking over its shoulder
worriedly.
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