BALTER FESTIVAL 2018 | FESTIVAL REVIEW
Chepstow Racecourse, Fri 8-Sun 10 June
Standing by the car and looking out at the queue into Balter, we wondered what we were letting ourselves in for. The wait for bag check funnelled out the main gate in all directions and a lot of the waiting revellers had taken the opportunity to switch out their civilian garb for the Balter uniform we were to become familiar with over the next few days. For the girls, fishnets and little more than underwear, and I didn’t really notice the boys. Everyone was of course already trashed: laughing, shouting, skanking to the tinny bass of a hundred Bluetooth speakers, and all this unchecked frivolity and colour shook us to the soles of our smalltown boots.
But once we’d joined the queue ourselves, drained some plastic bottles of gin and whiskey with the neighbours and engaged in several slurred and emphatic discussions about the politics of free parties, we settled into a zen-like groove that lasted all weekend. The significance of this didn’t hit us until later, but that’s what Balter is – a celebration of the free party lifestyle, and a harmless, actually quite charming fetish for anarchy. We caught the Balter groove, let it pick up our bags for us, and went in.
The size of Balter suits it. Only in recent years has it grown to about 3,500 strong, from a former 700-capacity event in Devon, and that – coupled with the chirpy raver crowd it drags in from all over the UK – makes it feel more like a flat party gone out of bounds rather than a music event being run by grownups. Organised down a long, thin wedge of the Chepstow Racecourse, the festival smacks of a winding market street in the light, with its stages and rave-tents running up and down both sides like angry, pulsing fruit stalls. Weird happenings and random events were 10 a penny and for quite a few of them we still have no idea if they were Balter sponsors or not.
One night we were walking down to the louder end of the fest on the hunt for a flickering tent to flail around in, but were waylaid on the way by the crowd around a gypsy ska band that had popped up next to the toilets. Accordions, trumpets, the whole shebang. One impromptu knees-up later and the band dispersed suddenly back into the wild, leaving us sweaty and fulfilled, but full of questions. The next morning while nursing a hangover, we gormlessly stood in the walkway outside a fenced area that had either popped up overnight or was only visible to sober eyes, and watched in polite amusement as one mashed lass tried to help another ride a unicycle up a hill. Was the unicycle a rental? Had they brought it from home? Why wasn’t anyone else watching this? Were they mad? Were we mad? Enough. Box out all those thoughts and pour yourselves a straight gin for breakfast.
The key to the Balter groove is: to by all means possible, let yourself go, watch, join in, but don’t ask questions. Let Rev. Schnider exorcise you while his congregation of Southern-style characters throw Hail Marys to the queue at the burger van. Hit the Hex stage with the Diablo-spinning performer you’ve bonded with over a shared love of 90s hip-hop. Given free rein to let their half-shaved hair down, the Balter crowd were the real heroes of the weekend; more piercing than person, friendly, off-their-faces and completely mental, they came together like they’d done it a thousand times before and just had a good time, easy as you like.
Music-wise, Balter has the same philosophy: anything that more easily facilitates getting wrecked and having a mad one with your mates was in. Flanking the main gates are the 24 Hour Garage Girls, a bassline stage with a roster of dancing mechanic girls that always drew a faithful crowd in, and the Buckyham Palace stage with a roster of sweaty jungle DJs hidden way up in the rafters, that also drew in a faithful crowd.
Further down the road, the Hex stage was a d’n’b tent perfect for sweating out in when you weren’t sweating out in the baking sun, and the Drawing Room for a general dogsbody rave that pretty much ran all day. Even barring random pop-up gypsy bands and weird happenings (does anyone remember that “jump into the K-hole” competition thing? I’m starting to think it was my psyche) there were 10 stages and tents to bop around in. God bless you if you had the patience and industry knowledge to know what you wanted to see and plan your way around, because we just cut trails up and down the joint.
Two hours with the Garage Girls, two minutes in the Jigsore tent (enough to realise we didn’t like 4/4), five hours after it got dark one night in the Shisha Bar, meeting people who all seemed to be from Chepstow or Middlesbrough, trying to blow smoke rings and talking about heavy metal. The Caravan stage was a favourite of ours; Saturday saw a right belter with Big Lad, Skata Tones, MC Devvo [top] (“Turn it down, dickheads!” he roared at the SIKA Stage, which to be fair was so loud all through the weekend that I’m sure I can still hear it) and Pas De Problème, a gypsy-ska band who I’m giving special mention to for opening up the biggest pit this side of Download.
Highlight of the festival easily goes to Henge [above], a severely underrated and wacky band sent from another planet to teach us how to dance again. They played opposite Ed Rush, but it was easily the best decision of the weekend for all who made it.
In short, we needn’t have worried at all back at those entry gates; Balter’s crazy sure, but in a nice way, like Brian Blessed. There’s certainly nothing sinister – not by our definitions anyway.
words JASON MACHLAB photos ROBIN HILL
