A decade had passed since I last attended the Electric Picnic, to which I returned on Friday. I started my comeback journey through Mindfield, a rather refined section of the event that focused on intellectually enriching activities. During a keynote debate about AI led by journalist Catherine Sanz and PR expert Paul Hayes among others, it became apparent how much the world had transformed since my last visit. Their prospective view of the near-future of technology was undoubtedly enlightening, although it made everything seem less clear than before, leaving me in a quandary about whether to be calm or worried.
In contrast, the main festival area was significantly larger and busier than before – the 75,000-strong crowd was slightly overwhelming at times. Nevertheless, some aspects remained the same. With 27 different stages and a whirlwind of various sounds and sights, the Electric Picnic continues to serve as a festival of disruption where focussing can be challenging. The only full set that I watched was by Sophie Ellis-Bextor, primarily because of my familiarity with her work, unlike most of the lineup. Her performance, which was majorly attended by women, had an unusual yet entertaining atmosphere that I hesitated to criticise, despite it teetering on the edge of being too intense.
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Attending a music festival a weekend before a 7.30am medical appointment on Monday might seem ill-judged, and attending two might seem like negligence. However, on Saturday night I found myself at Slane, having been persuaded by a friend to attend an event named Groovefest. In comparison to the famous music gigs normally held at the left bank of the Boyne River by Slane castle, this was a smaller venue on the right, in Rock Farm, and attracted barely 100 attendees.
Most seemed to be past rave regulars nostalgically stuck in 1995 but they unexpectedly made Mindfield seem less civilised. Before the music began, there was a cocktail session followed by a meal. Respect for the environment was widespread and so was the democratic spirit. Even the clean-up task was a group effort.
Yes, the tunes, which I might be mistaken in labelling as “techno”, stirred in me a longing for Murder on the Dancefloor and other lyrical melodies. However, one event led to the next. Before I realised it, I was observing the dawn stretch across the Boyne Valley.
Seeing as it was already dawn, the thought of sleep was out of the question. Add to that, a stroll through Slane had been arranged for early Sunday afternoon, although it had a shorter duration than anticipated.
Our trip commenced at the ancient Protestant church, an architectural masterpiece by Francis Johnston (famed for the GPO), and continued to the village crossroads to the “Four Sisters” – four houses, alike in features, commanding the view of the crossroads.
Ideally, our guide Ben suggested, we would’ve journeyed up towards the Francis Ledwidge cottage and museum. However, the distance seemed unreasonable after an exhausting night. We opted for a visit to the local pub.
Remarkably, we observed the eve of Ledwidge’s birthday. Born on the 19th of August, 1887, Ledwidge’s life was cut short 29 years later in Belgium, felled by a German shell during the Third Battle of Ypres in 1917.
One of Ledwidge’s final poems before his death, Home, was a touching tribute to Slane – a charming narration of a dim woodland pathway, mirrored waters, and grazing sheep on winding hill paths, artfully woven with summer sounds and the colours of harvest.
During Ledwidge’s last days, he was involved in constructing a road, at a region heavily smitten by bombing, fittingly dubbed “Hell’s Corner”. He had paused for a short tea break when a shell found its mark beside him. During a tour of the first World War battlefields a few years ago, I paused at that spot and contemplated his fate.
Interestingly, the most deafening experience of my weekend, in spite of attending two music festivals, was my MRI scan the following Monday morning, for which I made it to the hospital, still bleary-eyed, at 7.26am.
The hospital staff equipped you with earphones prior to sliding you into the cacophony of sound. Regardless, you’re victim to an onslaught of loud electromagnetic bleeps, bloops and buzzers, restlessly repeating for extended minutes.
One consequence of the Lorenz forces that map the human body by altering the rotational speed of its hydrogen atoms results in seemingly random noises, quite comparable with techno music. On the peculiar side, these MRI-generated sounds come with what seems like lyrics – a byproduct of a psychological event known as pareidolia. This phenomenon morphs noises into perceived language, causing repeating sounds such as “mad” or “man” or even “mad man” to echo in your ears. Perhaps that’s a personal interpretation.
Much like a concert at the Electric Picnic, the MRI session requires approximately 45 minutes. Even though the vibrations were loud, they resembled a soothing melody, becoming more and more calming after the aforementioned weekend. When the nurses returned to accompany me out of the contraption, I was on the verge of napping.