Five Hours North: a dash across the country for the perfect festival day
It’s 2am, and I’m smashing a rendition of Talking Heads’ ‘Once In A Lifetime’ at karaoke, knowing full well that I have to be on a train in six hours. When that painful alarm sounds the next morning, kick-starting the hangover immediately, the first words that leave my mouth are: “Why on earth are we doing this?” We’re about to embark on a five-hour journey from Brighton to Sheffield, one festival to another, south to north.
For weeks, the poster for the Get Together festival had been haunting me like a crush you can’t stop thinking about. With CMAT’s name at the top in big, bold letters and a solid scattering of some of my favourite emerging acts, it was as if someone had seen into my playlists and made me a dream lineup. And then there’s the fact of the location, placing so many of my favourite artists in my favourite city, and even my favourite part of the city. Across some of the bars in Kelham Island that I love the most, the prospect of being there went round and round in my daydreams. I wanted a crisp pint from one of Sheffield’s many breweries. I wanted to eat from one of the vendors at Peddlar that I used to flock to every month during my uni years. I wanted to see old friends and dance with them to new songs.
“Ahh, it’s the same weekend as The Great Escape,” I’d said to my friend and colleague, Dale, when he first drew my attention to the festival, tagging about 20 heartbroken emojis on the end. But as the days went on, that image of my dream day got only more alluring. I find that the longer I spend in the south, the more northern I become. The battle between the two festivals was like a conflict between my northern roots and my adopted southern home, demanding I make a decision between them. Then, as the Brighton festival descended further into disarray, making it clear that the atmosphere there would never be able to live up to the one I’d been fantasising about, the excuse not to be in Sheffield felt weaker and weaker. “Fuck it, I’m going to do both.”
But then, at 8am, as we started the first leg of the journey, that felt like a really, really stupid idea. The adrenaline of making the train on time, mixed with the nausea of a few too many baby Guinness shots the night before, tasted like complete and utter dread. I cursed myself for my decision. I cursed myself even more for being the type of person who cannot, for the life of me, nap, and I cursed my friend and travel companion, Beth, for being the type of person who can.
Originally, we’d planned to play hooligans, joking that we were reclaiming train tinnies from the loud football lads who usually have the craft nailed. We’d pre-bought cans but they simply sat warming in our bags as the thought felt utterly repulsive. “Why did we think we were going to drink those?” Beth said, worrying aloud for the fate of the day, “I actually don’t know if I can face another pint.”
But after five long hours, two trains, a Pret sandwich, and a failed attempt to do anything productive or entertaining with the time, we disembarked in Sheffield. The sun was beating down hotter and brighter than in Brighton. Everything was going to be okay. Within an hour of landing, the beer tasted better than ever, and the journey was worth it.
In Brighton, the festival felt like an itch unscratched. Amid the moral debate, the atmosphere was rightfully lost. No one wanted to have fun as we headed there for work, so no one did. Instead, it was heavy with a sense of obligation, as the music industry heads at the beach just wanted to get in and get out, write our articles, and do the best we could to report on the situation while navigating it.
But at Get Together, the itch was scratched again and again as I kept saying out loud what a nice time I was having. Femur blew away any remaining cobwebs from the long journey with their high-octane punk and local heroes status. They’re a Sheffield staple, so when they took to the stage, the audience gave them the welcome they deserved. Mickey Nonimono followed it up with his distinctly Baxter Dury-esque energy. With his witty lyricism and captivating aura, the crowd was slightly confused by his vibe but utterly on board with it. Next door, Ellie Bleach introduced her storytelling stylings to the city. Afterwards, as we sipped on a Kelham Island Brewery beer, a stranger came up to her and said, “Please come to Sheffield again! We can figure out a way to get you here if you’ll come play again.” Neither of us could believe it, all googly-eyed and awed at such a sweet display of generosity and the best kind of praise.
The whole day put me in one of those moods where I wanted to talk to strangers, freed from the London shackles of needing a slight air of ‘leave me alone’. I was making new friends, catching up with ones I hadn’t seen in years, and putting away Campari spritzes as the beautiful weather called for a level-up in the luxury of my boozing. Standing at complete odds with Brighton in both geography and atmosphere, the festival’s energy glowed. I had this feeling that absolutely everyone was having the best day. Optimism radiated from every face and the layered laughs in the streets between the venues. The festival had always promised good music, but what it really delivered was a plain and simple good day.
By the time CMAT took to the stage of a packed-out warehouse, she was merely the delicious cherry on top of an absolute ice cream sundae of a Saturday. Then, catching the final moments of Picture Parlour putting in a shift over at Church, proving themselves to be the next generation of headliners, was the added sprinkles. I thought to myself, “I love music. I love my friends. I love Sheffield.” Right there, as my perfect lineup merely became a minor detail to the perfect festival day, I loved my life and ignored the looming thought of the long journey home.
